Control
by Carbon65
Summary: Sometimes, invisible things are the hardest to understand. He is in control of his body, not the other way around. Diabetic Sebastian. Part I of the Warbler Chronicles.
1. Chapter 1

He stirs the vodka and soda, carefully. Someone watching closely might notice the subtle swirl of the mixing of alcohol and water, but no one is watching that closely.

Whitney Houston is dancing with Dolly Parton, and Mariah Carey has his skirts hiked up so the men around him can stuff dollar bills into the shorts showing his very obvious package.

He takes a sip, keeping himself from gulping down the drink. The carbonation burns his nose and his throat.

The air is already heavy with smoke. A man down the bar extinguishes a cigarette in an ashtray and reaches for another. He squeals, that's the only way the sound the man is making can be described, and goes back to arguing with his friend about interior design. It doesn't matter that smoking in bars is illegal here, everyone does it anyway. Its not so bad. They smoked in French bars, too.

He sees Blaine and Kurt walking in. He orders another round, handing the bartender his fake when he orders the second round. Its funny how he never gets carded when he orders anything at full strength, but telling a notoriously heavy handed bartender to go easy gets people suspicious. Like he's young and he can't hold his liquor. Yes, he's young, but he knows his limits. He's in control.

He knows he looks douche on the dance floor. Years of show choir training take control. Years of flirting, of question, of aching.

He knows what he wants. It's harmless, really. Just a little fun.

Kurt breaks up the party.

He goes home alone.

He strips off the double layer of shirts with the popped collars.

He itches where sweat from dancing has mixed with adhesive.

He checks to see… he has another day.

He showers.

He climbs into bed.

He is in control.


	2. Chapter 2

He is in control.

It's what he tells himself as he is drifting off to sleep. He awoke to shocking silence and glowing green numbers, 4:33, dazed and disoriented.

His heart is pounding out of his chest. His head is spinning. His hands, when he tries to move them, shake. It takes him a minute or two to orient himself, to fish the black case from beside his bed, use his cellphone to check the reading. Technology confirms what his body is telling him.

He rips into the package of Sweettarts stashed in his nightstand.

He barely chewed the candy, eating a few then waiting…

Then a few more….

Until the shaking subsides.

Until he can sleep again.

Until he has control.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry... your needy author here. This is my return to Fan Fic after almost a year. Please let me know how I'm doing and if you want me to continue._

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><p>It's an hour before sectionals are set to begin. It's the first time the Warblers will preform in public without Blaine Anderson. It's the first time he will preform in public since he dawned the Dalton blazer.<p>

They have split up the solos. Thad, Jeff and he will each take lead on a song. He will never admit it, but his stomach is filled with butterflies.

The tiny electron trill from his pocket startles him, reminds of him of things he's been ignoring.

He can't risk it during his performance. What if the onstage mikes pick up the alarm? What if the judges think it's a cellphone?

He checks the screen. The EMPTY icon is blinking. NO DELIVERY.

He scratches the adhesive patch on his stomach. Its itchy as fuck. His doctor would have said to change it a few days ago, but he was up late doing calculus, then practicing with the Warblers.

He knows how long he can go. Normally, he is in control of this, but he's been distracted lately. And, stress makes things run shorter.

Without a thought, he goes to the bathroom. He rips the patch away from his skin, and balls it up. He tucks it in his bag, and pushes the problem out of his head.

He is in control.


	4. Chapter 4

In a navy and red blazer of glory, the Warblers had descended on Scandals. In point of fact, he had berated them into wearing something that could pass for normal. Its clear they're underage, some of them woefully, but the staff ignores it because they dance, and buy drinks, and can sing in perfect harmony, even when drunk.

"You seriously think they'll let you into the club wearing _that_?" He had asked, with a derisive nod toward Andrew's DALTON FENCING t-shirt. "It screams, 'I'M UNDERAGE!'"

The little freshman, Andrew, had gone back to change, head hanging in defeat. He's not even sure if Andrew ranks on the Kinsey scale, although it's hard to believe that anyone who can hit a G above middle C is straight and has his junk intact.

The rest of the Warblers, proclaimed questioning, allies and gay, trickled into the room as he did damage control on their clothes. Fitted T? Okay with a jacket. Three piece suit? No.

Nick and Jeff are playing pool and carefully supervising Andrew's Coke to make sure he gets no Captain. Trent and David are gyrating together on the dance floor. Katherine would be jealous if she could see her boyfriend now. Thad, another designated sober Warbler, is dancing in the most uninhibited way.

He sits at the bar, perfecting his douche bag look. His hair is gelled as high as it can go. He sips his drink, stirring up the double shot. God, he loves well drinks.

He knocks back the gin and tonic, and slides off his bar stool. His indiscretion earlier in the day has caught up to him. He stops at the water cooler on the other side of the dance floor, and swallows the full plastic cup without thinking about it. God, hydration feels good to his parched body. It's all he can do not to stand there, and drink an obscene amount.

He is in control of his body, he reminds himself. This thirst is just weakness.

He has to piss like Seabiscuit. He joins the line for the men's room. Aside from sporting events, museums, and Dalton after a particularly bad batch of Curry Masala, Scandals is one of the first places he has seen an actual line for the men's room.

A pair of brown eyes meet his green ones. He lifts his chin in acknowledgement. He'll be there. He just has to piss.

A hand closes on his wrist. Its owner drags him out of line, toward a dark corner of the bar.

He can do this, he tells himself. He can hold it. He lets himself be lead away from the bathroom, away from his friends, away from his sobriety.

He is in control.


	5. Chapter 5

_Warning: There may be triggers here! Please review :). Thanks!_

It feels like a dream… a nightmare, really. He looks up to see a tall, thin man in a suit leading him away from the line.

He is lead back, into a dark, smokier corner of the bar. The floor is sticky under his shoes.

A man in a fedora and a ginger are kissing so passionately in the corner, the word hardly seems to apply. Its almost feral, the men's need for each other.

A hand is on his shoulder, pressing him down and forcing him to his knees. He sinks down, his mind disconnecting from his body. The weight remains on his shoulder.

His belly cramps, low, and tight and painful. The muscles are aching from holding back.

He is suddenly aware of the dryness of his mouth. He knows what is coming. He licks his lips.

He senses more than hears the zipper being drawn down.

Dammit! He doesn't wait this. Not now. Not like this. He doesn't want to be the victim.

Silently, he rises, throwing the man's hand off his shoulder.

"Fuck you!" He hisses, slapping away the offending hand. The word comes out as dry as an autumn leaf.

He runs, almost blindly, from the club. Past the man in the fedora running his hands along a pale, slender back. Past the whirling Warblers on the dance floor. Past the bouncer he had charmed earlier.

By the dumpsters behind the bar, he unzips his fly and relieves himself. There is no sweeter feeling.

But, relief doesn't last long. Bile rises in his dry throat. His head spins, and he doubles over as his body purges acid and alcohol.

He stands and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, trying to get rid of the awful taste.

It's time to go home. He reaches for his phone, texts the others to tell them he's leaving, calls a cab.

He leans against the rough brick, letting the air revive him.

He is in control.


	6. Chapter 6

He's been back for an hour, trying to calm down.

He showers, trying to wash every inch of grime off his body. He lathers, rinses, repeats until his hair hangs limp. He washes his wrist until its red and raw. He wants the thin man's filth off of him. He lets the water run down the drain, washing away the small pile of vomit.

He goes through the motions he's been too busy to remember. The liquid that smells like dirt and hospitals and illness trickles onto his one pair of jeans. His hip throbs when the needle goes in the way it only does one in a hundred times, and he sees blood in the white plastic tube when he pulls the needle from his hip. With the luck he's been having, when he pulls the set out, he'll have a big black and blue bruise as well as a little white scar.

It's as though fate is trying to spite him tonight. First the drunk man in the club, now this.

It's a battle he's been waging with his body. He's not going to loose.

The urge to vomit comes again, as it had outside the club… in the taxi… in the shower.

He makes it to the bathroom before it happens.

He brushes his teeth, praying to whatever deity is listening to his hapless prayer that this will be the last time.

He fishes a white plastic strip encased in a white foil wrapper from the waistband of his boxers. He christens it, thanking god that it says tan. Its just alcohol, then.

He goes back to his room and gulps down the last of his bottle of water. From his nightstand, he fishes out the bottle of medicine with the orange and white label and a fresh syringe.

He calculates a dose in his head, checks it against his phone, and draws back the plunger.

Orange cap in his teeth, needle sticking out of his right arm, he is twisted toward the door as Nick unlocks it and slides inside.

Their eyes meet for a moment as Nick takes in the situation. There is no way he will get out of explaining this.

He has lost control.

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><p>Please, please, pretty please, Review!<p>

Thanks!


	7. Chapter 7

"What the fuck?" Are the first words out of Nick's mouth. He thinks it's the first time he's heard Nick curse. Nick is a good Christian boy.

He pulls the syrange from his bicep and caps it. He thinks Nick is over-reacting. Even a good Christian boy should know that good drugs would go in his veins at the crook of his elbow, not his upper arm.

"What the fuck are you doing, Seb?" Nick repeats. "I'm calling the fucking rector."

"No, you're not." Despite exhaustion and alcohol and adrenaline in his system, he is suddenly sober.

"Why not?" his fellow Warbler demands. "You're fucking doing drugs."

"Its not a drug when _your_ body makes it," he tries to explain, stumbling with the words. "Fucking bum pancreas. Fucking Insulin. Fucking blood sugar. Fucking pump."

Somehow the jumble of curses and vaguely biological terms trigger something in Nick's brain. "Fine. No rector tonight. Tommorow, we're going to talk, though, Seb."

He yawns. It will be just what he needs when he's hungover and trying to conjugate latin verbs tomorrow. "Fine," he grunts, chugging the bottle of water and curling into sleep.

He is out before his head hits the pillow.

Sleep takes control.

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><p><em>Thank you for all the nice responses!<em>_ Thanks!_


	8. Chapter 8

He tries to regain control by avoiding Nick as much as he can.

It goes well on Sunday Nick goes to church in the mornings. He, Jon the beat boxer, and a few of the other boarders, leave for the service around 9 am and don't return until 2.

His family is only religious if its election year … or he needs to get into a new school. He thanks his lucky stars that his father didn't ship him off to Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow.

The reprieve doesn't last long. Nick finds him trying to take the derivative of polynomials in the library, and drags him out bodily. Somewhere between drunk, hungover, and bamboozled by the chain rule, he is in no state to protest as his roommate drags him bodily back to his room.

"Talk, Sebastian." Nick is terse.

He parrots an old slogan snidely. "Crack is whack."

Nick gives him a dark look. "You drink. A lot."

"I though we'd already talked about this. Jesus drank. Thomas Jefferson drank. Elvis drank. I don't see why I shouldn't carry on their fine tradition."

Nick is not pleased with this answer. They've already had a few fruitless discussions about alcohol before. Nick doesn't drink. He tries again. "But, last night… you were taking insulin. So…. You're diabetic?"

"You realize that diabetes eats your pancreas, not your liver?" His comment is laced with snark.

Nick tries again. "But, alcohol…"

"I don't see your fucking MD anywhere." His voice is laced with venom. "I don't see your fucking insulin around here. You're not my fucking doctor. You're not my fucking mother. Until you know what the fuck you're talking about, don't tell me what to do."

His voice rises, and he knows he's speaking louder than he wants, but he almost doesn't care.

He picks up his jacket, a water bottle in the pocket. He shuts the door firmly behind him. He walks calmly down the hall, calmly down the stairs, calmly out to the lacrosse field.

He looks around carefully. It is November, and most sensible people are inside. The hard core runners are sequestered on the paths, or running the track.

He is alone.

He punches the bleachers with his right hand.

He punches the metal over and over again.

He will regain control.

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><p><em>AN: So, the issue of diabetes and alcohol has been raised. While I do not condone any actions taken by this incarnation of Sebastian, this is a fic about self destructive behavior. And, in my opinion, underage drinking falls into the category. Lots of diabetic teens and adults drink regularly; this is an extension of real life._

_Thanks to everyone who commented on the last chapter! C65_


	9. Chapter 9

He takes a deep breath as he opens the heavy glass door with the white names. It's three in the afternoon, and he should be at Warbler practice, but he's here instead.

It's a month or so after Sectionals. New Directions won their competition by singing Michael Jackson.

He and Nick have been strained since their talk.

He has recently been elected to the head of the Warbler council. It doesn't matter. This shit show has been scheduled for six months, and there is no moving it.

He gives his name at the high marble counter to the receptionist. She tells him a nurse will call him when they're ready.

He sits on the wide leather couch, and waits. Idly, he picks up an old copy of Sport's Illustrated and flips through the pages. He almost wishes he had brought a copy of his assigned English book. Almost.

As he waits, a girl emerges from the back of the office. He judges that she's about five feet two, a good foot shorter than he is. She's wearing a Dorby hall uniform: Black Mary Janes, grey knee socks, grey kilt, white blouse, red blazer with blue piping. Her long dark hair is escaping its wispy braid. She clutches a set of folded papers in one hand.

He is close enough to hear the tremble in her voice as she makes her appointment for the six months out.

When she turns to leave, he catches her face in profile. Her features barely register. All he can see is that she's barely keeping from crying.

Her thumb covers a corner of the paper, but he can read 7.4 on the paper. He doesn't know why this is worth bursting into tears, but apparently it is.

Another success doctor's appointment.

The girl brushes past his father as she leaves the office.

John Smythe is a man who wears an aura of power and control like a cloak. He is not a man to be trifled with. His son can only emulate the appearance.

The nurse appears as the attorney sits next to his son, rising again as the tentative name is called.

"Sebastian Smythe?"

He prays he can keep control of the appointment.

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><p><em>AN_: _Review are always appreciated! Thanks!_


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: A Hemoglobin A1c, or A1c measures the amount of residual sugar retained on red blood cells during their three month lifetime. It's widely used a measurement of blood sugar over a period of time. For someone without diabetes, an A1c of 4 – 6 is normal. Most diabetics are encouraged to keep their A1cs at or below 7 to avoid complications._

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><p>The examination room feels cold and sterile. The walls are white. The only decoration is a small black rack magazines and pamphlets with titles like, "DIABETIC RETANOPHATY AND YOU", "CARING FOR YOUR FEET" and "HAVE YOU EVER THOUGHT ABOUT SKYDIVING".<p>

His father sits in the only hard plastic chair, facing him.

He feels as empty and cold as the room.

"Drug or alcohol use?" The chipper nurse asks.

John Smythe doesn't give his son the chance to answer. "No."

He thinks of the number of bottles of "water" he has smuggled onto campus in the past month. He things of the few times he has been reckless enough to slip brandy into his coffee at the Lima Bean. He doesn't say anything.

"Tobacco use?"

Again, his father does not give him a chance to answer. "No."

This, at least, is strictly true.

"Are you sexually active?" The nurse looks at him.

"No." His father says forcefully. The vehemence behind his words challenges his son to contradict him. His father had explained his position multiple times. It is fine for his son to be gay as long as he never acts on the fact.

He thinks of the men he's been with, but says nothing.

The nurse leaves the room. He and his father sit in stony silence.

He wishes, not for the first time, that he could come to these appointments alone. He does not need a parent here. But, he's not strong enough to say no to his father. Ever since he was eight and diagnosed, this has been his father's show. Other parents micromanage their children's sports or their homework.

His father micromanaged his health.

There is a knock on the door, and the doctor enters. "Nice to see you again, John, Sebastian." The greeting is pleasant enough, but it is a lie.

The doctor wastes no time in making the meeting unpleasant. "Have you been taking insulin, Sebastian? Your A1c is 10.8."

Sebastian gives up on the appointment. Now its simply a question keeping his temper in control.


	11. Chapter 11

He manages to remain calm, cool and collected until he makes it back to his dorm room. Its not quite five.

He should go to the remaining half an hour of Warbler's Practice.

He should open his calculus book and start reviewing differentiation by parts.

He should go to the gym for an hour and work out.

Instead, he reaches for his hip, and runs his nails across the adhesive of his infusion set until it pulls out of his body.

It hurts coming out. It bleeds a little. He doesn't care.

He lies on the bed on his stomach. Every inch of his body that he can put in contact with the mattress, he does. He turns his head to the wall. He wants to scream. Instead, he takes steadying breaths.

When he was a child, he would fly into passionate fits of emotion. Joy, rage, love, sorrow, he knew them all well. It was why he strives for control, now. In adolescence, raging hormones making him even more passionate, he had discovered that he could pull himself away from the edge by physically grounding himself. He is too proud, now, to lie on the floor as he did when he was eleven.

At least he did not given Them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He remained blasé as the doctor again detailed the horrors that awaited diabetics with uncontrolled conditions.

Neuropathy.

Amputation.

Blindness.

Kidney Failure.

Death.

As convinced as They were of the consequences, he was unconvinced.

His body has betrayed him once. He will not let it happen again. There will be no consequences, because he will not let them happen. He will die first.

He will die you.

He has decided that although he probably doesn't have much time, perhaps another forty years, he will be meteoric in his ascent. He will make his life count, even if it is short and broken.

He is aware that the pillow is wet beneath his cheek, but he lets the moisture remain.

He breaths in the scent of the laundry detergent the school uses. His sheets smell clean and safe.

He counts his breaths.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He finds himself calming.

Slowly, he stands up and goes to the in suite to wash his face.

When Nick and Jeff burst in five minutes later, there is no evidence of his break down.

His face is a perfect mask of control.

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><p><em>Review are Love!<em>


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Writing this chapter makes me really wish I could speak French. One of my pet peeves is reading bad translations in fics. So, I will try for a few phrases and hope they translate properly. _

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><p>Da-Nuh-Nuh-Nay-Nuh-Nuh-Nuh<p>

Da-Nuh-Nuh-Nay-Nuh-Nuh-Nuh

Dropkick Murphy's "Shipping out to Boston" breaks the peace and silence of the dorm room.

Nick glares groggily as his roommate fishes his iPhone from his bedside table.

"Bastian, Love," His mother's throaty voice fills the phone.

"Hi Momman," He tries not to sound sleepy as he answers. "Do you know what time it is here?"

He walks into the bathroom, running his fingers through his wild bedhead.

"Dinner time, isn't it?" She asks. "You weren't napping?"

"Ohio is six hours _behind_ France," he reminds her, not for the first time.

"Merde." She swears into the phone.

They chat, idly, for a few minutes. Mother and son had a connection not enjoyed by most pairs. They speak in a mixture of English, French, and her native Quebequois.

"Honey, are you happy?" His mother asks after a while.

He wants to laugh. He doesn't know what happy is. He believes it a myth, like Santa Claus or the tooth fairy, made up to keep people in line. Happiness is an opiate of the masses.

He wants to say it, but he cannot. Not now. Not to his mother.

"I'm fine," he offers noncommittally. He cannot lie to her.

She sighs, the weight of years in the sound.

"I'm just worried about you, Bastian. I talked to your father last night. You could come back…"

He cannot return to France. Maybe she doesn't remember the humiliation, but he does. Ohio might be awful, but no one here knows awkward, bashful Bastian. No one ever will.

"I'm fine," he repeats, the words steadier than before. "Mom, I have to go. I need to get ready for class."

They say their goodbyes and hang up.

And, even though its 7 and it takes him nearly an hour to get ready and he has calculus at 8:05, sharp, he crawls back into bed.

He lies on his stomach and pulls the covers over his head.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He counts his breaths.

Nick gets up, and goes to the shower. He will be disappointed the water is not yet warm. The pipes in the building are old, and it takes a few minutes for the hot water to flow.

His roommate remains in bed as the minutes tick by.

He finds himself falling asleep.

The exhaustion he feels is beyond his control.


	13. Chapter 13

He stands, shivering in the night air. Every inch of skin is exposed, save the silver chain around his neck and the small white patch at his side. He has been denied even the pleasure of shoes for this little jaunt.

It is cold in Ohio in November. The hairs on his arms and legs stand at attention like soldiers.

The moonlight reflects off the white scars that freckle his abdomen. It glances off the sliver-pink of newly healing skin, and highlights the shadow of a black and blue mark on his hip.

These are the marks of his disease.

He thinks to how he got here. His father campused him. The official word was that John Smyth was concerned his son's B- in Latin showed a lack of focus. The unofficial word was that an A1c of 10.8 was punishable by a loss of freedom.

He joined Jeff, Nick and David for their weekly movie night. Thad tagged along as well. They were planning to watch a super hero movie. It satisfies all the qualifications the boys have: explosions, beautiful cars, beautiful men and beautiful women. Unfortunately, the debate over Batman vs. Ironman had grown so violent the two movies could not be found.

Instead, they played cards.

"What do you mean, you don't know Euchre?" David had demanded when he and Thad admitted ignorance. "It's like, un-American. Or at least, un Midwestern."

David tried to tutor his fellow Warblers while team 36 sorted the deck. "It's a game of tricks. Ace is high, unless if the jack of the trump suit, or suit of the same color."

Trent and his partner try to follow the rules.

"There is one other thing." Jeff says, a devious grin on this face. "If you can't score a single point, you have to streak. House rules."

"House Rules." David and Nick echoed.

Now, he and Trent are standing sky clad in the moonlight. He takes a deep breath of the brisk air and begins jogging across the dewy lawn. Trent is at his heels.

"I can't believe that hand!" Nick exclaims, not for the first time. If David wasn't the one shuffling and dealing, there might have been acusations of cheating. The cards came perfect for Team 36. They played them well, stealing the last trick of five from Trent, and then each managing to take the entire hand on their own, ultimately scoring the ten points needed to win.

Trent had spewed wine, all over the cards, table, and his partner's white shirt, when Jeff layed the last card and revealed the left bauer.

A camera flash blinds him as he sprints across the lawn. A minute later, he is sitting on his ass in the dewy grass. His knee is scraped and his ankle is sore. He glares at the rabbit warren.

He damns his lack of control.

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><p><em>R&amp;R, P&amp;TY!<em>


	14. Chapter 14

_I apologise for the time it took me to get this chapter out. I had a grad school interview and some wicked writer's block. I know where the story is going in the next few chapters... which should be out soon._

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><p>He limps into the brightly lit foyer of the hall stalk naked. The scars and bruise shone in the moonlight could not be more glaring obvious. He notices a scrape on his knee and a grass stain on his ankle.<p>

The Warblers are standing in a group near the door. A few camera flashes greet him. He's a bit angry, but he would be doing the same thing if the roles were reversed. Besides, half the club participated in Thad's popular naked soccer tournament in the dorm hallways last month. At least another quarter were busted for Strip Munchkin. Behind his fellow singers, the Lacrosse team and his classmates stand in loose clumps.

Trent was saved the embarrassment of this particular walk of shame. Despite his girth, the sassy warbler made it back quickly. The boys didn't have time to gather.

Freshman Andrew gawks at his abdomen as he pushes through the crowd. They give him wide birth, thanks to his swinging member. He knows Andrew is not the only one staring; the freshman is just the only one doing it so openly.

He makes it back to his shared room with Nick, and locks the door. He pulls on boxers and reconnects his pump at his hip. The site is tender; pain stabs his hip as he hears the audible click of the plastic connection. He makes his hand into a claw, and drives his nails into his hip around the infusion set.

He washes his knee and ankle. All he really has is a scrape from falling on the grass and a strain. He will be fine in the morning.

He goes back out to his room and pulls on a pair of jeans.

David and Nick walk in, and he hears the click of the lock behind them.

"What did you do, man?"

Ever blunt, David asks the question which has filled the mind of 200 boys tonight.

He checks the bruise on his stomach, which peeps out over the waistband of his jeans. It doesn't hurt. He didn't think it looked that bad. The center is a deep purple-blue, with green around the edges. Apparently his definition of "not that bad" is off.

He shrugs. "I nicked a vein. No big deal."

David raises his eyebrows. "And the sores?

He studies his stomach. There are a few raised red marks on his stomach. They're not scars, not yet, but they're red and raised and they look painful. They are the mark of old sets, which he let sit too long. As many years as he's worn a pump, his body has started to reject the invasion.

"They're nothing."

He looks at Nick. "It's from the … thing."

"Seb's right. It's nothing." Nick confirms.

David leaves, puzzled and displeased but with no where to question.

He knows the boys will talk. They are more gossipy than some girls he's met, and they like drama just as much. But, with a little luck, he can control the damage from tonight.

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><p><em>R&amp;R, P&amp;TY<em>


	15. Chapter 15

Tuesday, he calls Blaine Anderson because he has no one else to call.

His stained jacket lies across a chair. He would ask Nick or Trent for help, but both go home to do their laundry. If he sends it to his dry cleaners with a wine stain, they will call his father. John Symthe will pull his son out of school before he lets him drink underage.

He knows the others are talking about him, and he cannot face the stares and whispers. Not now, not about his body. His sexuality? Fine. It's no secret that he's a bit of a man whore. But, his body's betrayal? No. That is too personal.

He knows the assumptions that are being made: he's on drugs, he got in a fight, he's with someone abusive. He knows they're not true. But, they don't have to be true to hurt him.

It's early. Nick is in the shower, dueting with himself to A Whole New World. His falsetto echoes nicely off the bathroom tiles.

He flips though the contacts on his iPhone, and selects the entry for "Blaine Warbler McKinley".

Blaine's ring back tone is _I'll be There_ by the Jackson 5. He has always found the song a little stalkerish.

"Hello?" Blaine's voice is groggy. "Who is this?"

"Sebastian." His name sounds hollow and strange on the line. "What's with the ringtone, man?"

"It's Michael week at McKinley," Blaine responds. "We're getting ready for sectionals. What's up?"

He takes a deep breath. He is in control. He did not just call up a guy… a guy he has had a crush on for a few months, who he would like to take in the night… to be vague on the phone."

"I need some advice. You know what happened with Trent on Saturday?"

Blaine laughs. "I saw a few pictures on Twitter. David says you got Euchred?"

He laughs with some embarrassment. "Yeah. And, when Trent found out we were streaking, he spewed wine everywhere. It literally came out his nose."

"I wish you had gotten a picture of that," the boy on the other end of the phone says.

He looks at his ruined shirt, and the place where his blazer pipping is black. "It got all over my shirt and jacket."

"You wore your shirt and jacket to play Euchre with the guys?" Blaine sounds incredulous. Dalton boys do not live in their blazers, despite popular belief.

"Bad fashion choice. But, now I have to get Trent's famous red wine concontion off before anyone catches me. Any advice?"

Blaine tells him a quick story about Trent's exploits last year with red wine and carpet. He jots down the tips, and they hang up.

As he heads to his first class in his extra blazer, he begins to hatch a plan.

The Warblers will take control of Regionals.

* * *

><p><em>R&amp;R, P&amp;TY!<em>


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: This chapter is dedicated to and inspired by Hannah Rachelle. _

He stares out the window and wishes he was driving. In his car, the music is smooth, not this twangy country. The ride is smooth, too. And, he doesn't end up next to freshmen that are still discovering deodorant. A point for Andrew in the straight boy category.

The Warblers are on their way to duel New Directions for the right to use Michael Jackson at regionals. He thinks it is a little bit stupid. How does one win a vocal battle when there is no one to judge? But, both the McKinley kids and his fellow Warblers were absolutely serious when the competition was proposed.

Jon "Meatbox", the driver and beatboxer, pulls off the highway, toward a gas station. They're early to meet New Directions.

The seven boys pile out of the minivan as soon as the engine is turned off. It's a relief to get into fresh air.

He thinks, not for the first time, that freshmen, and maybe sophomores, should take a hygiene class. It could become a class about dealing with the opposite sex for juniors and seniors.

Even though he's not interested in girls sexually, he knows he will someday have to interact with them. They scare him a little. Especially the Latina in New Directions… Santana Lopez.

Inside the little convenience store, the boys make quick purchases. Nick and Jeff make a beeline for the Twizzlers, arguing over the merits of the regular verses family sized package. David grabs a package of corn nuts from a shelf, then leads the way back to the glowing line of slushie machines.

Jon and Andrew are already filling large cups with the swirling frozen mixture. It comes in lurid red, an unnatural shade of blue, and brown.

"Hey, remember how Kurt always used to flinch when ever we'd drink a slushie?" Trent asks, as he contemplates a giant or extra giant cup of diet coke. "At McKinley, the football team would throw them in people's faces."

He decides to get two cups: one to drink, and one to throw in New Direction's faces. He won't hurt them, but it might just annoy them enough to give up on MJ.

"Dude, you're going to give yourself diabetes if you drink those," Andrew comments as he fills his large plastic cups with the red slush.

Its all he can do to keep from throwing one of the cups in the freshman's face. "Do you think that's a joke?" He hisses, his hands suddenly tight on the cups as anger courses through his veins.

He hates that everyone jokes about his disease. No other condition is quite as big a target of mirth. People don't make jokes about autism or cystic fibrosis or JRA the way they do about diabetes. He wishes they would experience the pain, just for one.

He takes control of his temper. He doesn't even give the younger boy the bird. Instead, he walks to the counter and pays for his drinks. On the way out the door, he takes a scoop of rock salt and sprinkles it over one of his cups.

Its only later that he realizes neither his nor Andrew's slush was salty.


	17. Chapter 17

He stares blankly at the computer screen, and wishes he could

He feels guilty about what happened to Blaine. Blaine has never been anything but a decent guy, even when he was drunk. Frankly, Blaine was one of the only guys he could stand to be around. He doesn't whine. He doesn't gossip. He remembers to shower. He can sing. He can dance. He has a quirky sense of humor. He looks really hot in pink sunglasses…

He thinks about calling Blaine to apologize. He gets up the courage and unlocks his phone.

He scrolls through the names, down to Blaine's.

Once, he even gets so far that the phone encourages him to enjoy the ring back tone while his party is being reached.

He hangs up before the phone can actually ring or he can hear if Blaine has changed his tone from the creepy stalker song.

His guilt is genuine. He honestly had never intended to hurt anyone. He, or Andrew, were supposed to drink a salty slushie. A reminder that snark, rather than violence, was a better tatic. Instead, the violence escalated.

Santana Lopez, although maybe she should be called Satan, might have been his equal in the duel. She might have taken a slushie to the face with grace. But, she and the Wheelchair kid has shown him up when they did their Michael number and the Warblers practically ran on stage.

It was lonely, being the only person sitting in the audience with a cool look on his face. His self control and his pride would not let him leap up onto the stage.

His "brothers" have not been kind the past few weeks.

He knew the gossiped about him in the halls before classes and during lunch. He's taken to eating quickly, and spending the rest of his free time in the library or running alone.

It's not bullying exactly. No one has been unkind. But, they don't have to be. He as violated their trust. He's not sure he can ever win a place back in the brotherhood.

He blinks, and focuses back the computer screen. His pump chirps and he silences it. He takes a sip of coke, and turns back to his chemistry problem set. Between balancing equations and the calc and history he has yet to do, it will be a long night.


	18. Chapter 18

At ten, his pump trills, insistently. He turns off the alarm, and balances the last reaction.

His stomach feels like someone is driving a knife into it under his infusion set. He shifts in his seat to relieve the pressure. He plugs in headphones into his iPod and pushes through his calculus.

At twelve-fifteen, he goes to pee and get another bottle of coke. He works his second calculus problem.

At two-thirty, he goes for another soda. He drinks the can in a single gulp. It's sickly sweet and syrupy in his mouth. The carbonation is a relief, until it foams and leaves his mouth dry. The liquid is a relief, even though he knows water would be better. But, water cannot keep him awake. He needs this bitter medicine.

He finishes his calc at three. He has a history essay to write, but he is nauseous and tired. He can't go to class without his essay. He can't bear to write the essay. He wishes he had a pause button: something to let him control his life.

He's desperate.

He's alone.

He's exhausted, and probably half-baked with acidosis.

The idea dawns on him as quickly as a turtle runs a mile. No teacher can deny him acidosis as an excused absence. He'll spend the day sleeping. He'll have time to finish his history essay and check his chemistry problems. His life will be on hold, for just a little while.

He gathers his books.

His out of breath when he reaches the stairs, but he attributes it to exhaustion.

He chugs a water bottle.

He brushes his teeth.

His stomach still aches, but he shifts his sleeping position so he doesn't feel the pain. His pump chirps again, but he is too tired to hear. He turns it off automatically.

There was a time when Nick would have stirred in his sleep, but one of the most useful skills anyone sleeping near an insulin pump could learn was the ability to sleep through the various alarms. Nick has the additional advantage of being able to sleep through a fire alarm.

He is asleep as soon as his head touches the pillow.

He has found a way to take control of his life again.


	19. Chapter 19

_A/N: The story arc I'm currently working on is one of the hardest things I've written. Diabetic ketoacidosis is probably one of the most feared short-term problems associated with the condition. After 2 – 4 hours without insulin, the body uses up all available sugar and starts breaking down fat and protein. A few hours after that, the fat and protein can't be broken down properly and its turned into acetone (nail polish remover) and a few chemical cousins. The process of making acetone also results in excess acid being released into the blood. Symptoms include the thirst/frequent urination associated with high blood sugar, as well as exhaustion, vomiting, deep breathing (crazy, but I swear its true) and a loss of focus. Without treatment (insulin, first and foremost, but also bed rest and fluids), a person first goes into a coma and eventually dies._

_In case you're worried, I think living with a chronic disease is worse than dying from one. And killing off the character wouldn't be cannon. And I have a HUGE crush on Thomas Grant Gustin._

* * *

><p>Oh God. He is going to vomit.<p>

He throws the covers off his body and stumbles out of bed in haze. The first wave of nausea hits before he makes it to the toilet. He doubles over the sink and heaves.

Vomiting up liquid feels strange.

The first wave ends, and he manages to make it the few feet to the toilet. He sinks to his knees.

The second round is as bad as the first. His mouth tastes like lemon juice mixed with bile.

His body tries to purge everything from his stomach.

He is cold. He was too tired last night to change into his pajamas, so he fell asleep in his boxers. He pulls his towel down from the bar next to the shower and wraps it around his shoulders.

He dry heaves. Every muscle in his body trembles with the effort to rid itself of the acid in his gut.

The worst is over, so he reaches out to flush.

His hand trembles.

His mouth tastes like bile.

His throat burns.

He thinks about getting up, but instead curls up in a ball on the bathroom rug. He is so tired. He will get up in a minute… he is just going to close his eyes.

Then, he will get up and brush his teeth and pee.

He breathes deeply.

He tries to count to ten.

One. Two. Three…

Does four or five come next?

Four… Five… Six

Seven… Eight…

… Nine…

… Ten…

He feels himself loosing consciousness.

Just a little nap.

Then, he will get up.

Then, he will take control.


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Ketones are measured by a urine test. When nothing is present in the urine, the strip stays tan. Trace, Low and Moderate ketones make the strip increasing dark shades of pink. Large ketones turn the strip purple._

* * *

><p>He wakes up because his boxers are moist. He stops himself from doing any more damage.<p>

Dammit! He can control his bladder.

He rolls to his knees, and reaches for a tan box in the second drawer by the bathroom sink. He tears off a white foil strip from the package.

On wobbly legs, he slowly moves until he is sitting on the toilet. He is not sure his legs will hold him. He feels very old.

Even in this state, his aim is near perfect, and he hits the strip with minimum splatter on his hands. It starts changing color before he can even examine it. The small box at the end moves from deep pink, to purple, to black. He has never seen this color before. It scares him.

He is suddenly aware of how much his site hurts. He rips away the adhesive. His skin is a bloody pump. The catheter, which is supposed to sit under his skin, is pressed awkwardly against the plastic base. The cannula isn't uncomfortable, so long as its inside him. Once it pulls out, though, it starts to do damage.

He wonders idyll how long he has been without insulin. He can't even begin to figure it out.

Slowly, he stands and cleans himself. He deposits his boxers in the trash, along with the plastic strip, and wraps the towel around his waist.

The trip back to his bed is deliberate and slow. He is breathing heavily when he reaches it.

He turns on his light, despite the fact that Nick will not wake up for another half an hour. From his bedside table, he fishes out a package of syringes and a pair of medicine vials. He uses the black case to test his blood sugar, but the meter only greets him. "HI" it blinks back proudly.

Dicking fuck. Its useless. He could be 600, 700, 1000 for all he knows. He selects an intermediate number. 15 units. It's a nice compromise, easy to draw. And… his total daily basal is… 30. The orange-capped bottle has a half life of 8 hours, which is … a fourth? no, a third of a day. He rolls the cloudy insulin between his hands, before drawing up 10 units. This is quickly followed by 15 units of the clear.

He pokes the uncapped needle around his naked stomach and hips, trying to find a sweet spot where the injection will not hurt so much. Finally, he mans up and injects himself, despite the awful pain.

He caps the syringe, and lays it on his night stand, next to the bottles.

He is so tired. Now that he's done this, he can rest.

He has no control over the sleepiness that washes over him, his glazed eyes watching the glowing 5:52 by his bed.


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Seb is pretty much unreliable at this point, and I really prefer writing a lucid, reliable narrator. Since Nick is actually conscious, I'm coopting him for my purposes, for a little wile. Also, this chapter is dedicated to Elle._

* * *

><p>Nick knows something is wrong as soon as he blinks the sleep from his eyes. A butt-naked Sebastian is sprawled across a towel on his bed. The light is on, and his roommate is drooling slightly.<p>

For the second time ever, Nick sees insulin vials out along with a syringe. Sebastian is meticulous about hiding the evidence of his disease.

In the bathroom, he finds the damp boxers in the small trashcan, and a box of something called KETOSTRIPS on the counter. Nick doesn't have to be a genius to figure out that a little WebMD search would be helpful.

Five minutes later, he's frightened. He's debating calling the rector, and 911, when Seb starts to stir.

"Sebastian?" Nick asks, hopefully.

"Grrmmm?" His roommate answers groggily.

Nick decides to see how sick his roommate really is. "You're naked," he offers helpfully.

Sebastian makes an effort to roll over and sit up. He slumps against the headboard, thinking. Behind those green-eyes, Nick wonders if a tiny mouse is turning a crank to move the gears. He goes to Seb's dresser, and pulls open the top drawer. He finds a pair of boxers and a worn gray t-shirt with a faded equation. It has a few more upside-down triangles than history-inclined Nick understands.

Sebastian mechanically pulls on the underwear and t-shirt, then slumps again.

"I'm not going to class," He announces, quietly. "I'll email the professors…"

"You should go to the ER," counters Nick.

Sebastian's eyes cloud, and his middle finger flicks up surprisingly quickly for someone, considering how long it took him to realize that his head was poking out of his sleeve.

Nick has never seen his roommate give the bird. He's usually all snarky wit.

"I'm not going to the hospital for something I can treat at home," Seb says. The words sound rehearsed. "I just need to sleep and pee and drink some water. I can do that here."

He reaches under his bed and removes a water bottle, which he drinks in one gulp. Then, he teeters to the bathroom.

Nick hears the toilet flushing and the sink running before Sebastian squats to pick up a water bottle and climbs slowly back into bed. He yawns, stretches and lies down again.

"I'm gonna sleep," He says, almost to himself.

Nick sinks onto his own bed. By all rights, he should turn Sebastian in to the rector, and make it the school's problem to deal with. But, Sebastian is skittish, especially lately. He doesn't seem to trust anyone, and few people seem to trust him. Nick cannot break the trust. Seb seems too fragile. He pulls out his laptop, and types an email to his teachers, claiming a mild case of stomach flu.

He closes his computer and watches his roommate's deep breathing.


	22. Chapter 22

It's a quiet morning. Sebastian sleeps like the dead for an hour and a half at a time. Then, with little warning, he wakes up, and makes a beeline for the toilet. He slowly walks back to his bed, gets a water bottle and repeats the process.

Nick tries to focus on reading Frankenstein for English, but he's only half invested in the book. During one of the good doctor's rambling's, he studies his sleeping roommate.

For the first time, Sebastian looks vulnerable. His features are relaxed, almost peaceful. His skin is pale, maybe a little too pale, and his hair is, for once, not gelled into oblivion. His rhythmic breathing is a little too deep for someone asleep. For once, he looks like what he is: a sick, sixteen year old boy; someone with more questions than answers.

Between 10 and 11, Nick hears retching when Seb goes into the bathroom. He puts down his book and pushes through the half open door to the bathroom. Sebastian is leaning kneeling in front of the toilet, looking absolutely miserable. There is yellow goup floating in the water.

Before Nick can do anything, Sebastian's body heaves again, bringing a little liquid.

"Fuck," He rasps, the word sounding dry and thin. "Fuck, fuck fuck." He dry heaves again, his body trying to violently expel whatever is making him sick. It is clear that Sebastian's body is in control.

Nick feels like a creep, watching his roommate vomit.

He makes a split second decision. "When you're done, we're going to the ER." Nick's voice sounds older, some how, and more firm.

"I'm show_" Sebastian's words are cut off by another dry heave, "-ering first."

Nick wants to laugh at the absurd request. He's not sure Sebastian has the energy to stand up long enough to wash himself. But, his roommate is insistent.

Sebastian heaves again, then, slowly raises himself to a standing position. Somehow, even in a vomit-stained math t-shirt and boxer shorts, his legs quivering a little with exhaustion or illness, he manages to look authoritative. He washes his hands, rinses his mouth, and walks slowly back to his bed for his towel.

Sitting on the edge, Sebastian notices the vials and syringe, which have been sitting on his nightstand all morning. He gathers them up, and shoves them deep inside the top drawer. Nick hears the rattling of pill bottles as the evidence of Sebastian's weakness disappears slowly.

Nick listens to the shower running. He wants to go get the rector, but he's not sure he should leave Sebastian alone.

He's glad he didn't go when his roommate emerges. He is still unshaven, but his teeth and hair are brushed. Sebastian barely has the energy to make it across the room, and back to his bed. Nick can do nothing as Sebastian falls into bed, already half asleep.

Nick isn't sure how things got so out of control.


	23. Chapter 23

Nick tries to shake Sebastian awake, but his roommate just moans. Nick makes a decision.

He goes to his computer, and searches for a name that is both familiar and strange. He punches the seven digits into his cell phone. His stomach flutters nervously as the phone rings. Nick is an easy-going guy. He has never needed to be in control, he can roll with the punches. He's not sure why he's nervous now.

"John Smythe's office," A cheerful voice says on the other end of the phone. "How may I direct your call?"

Nick takes a steadying breath. "I need to speak with Mr. Smythe." He prays it will be easy to talk to the man.

"May I ask who's calling please?" The woman on the other end is pleasant. He's surprised she's not trying to block him.

"Nick Duvall," he says quickly. "Can you tell him that it's about Sebastian?"

John Smythe picks up on the first ring. "Hello, Nick." His voice is deeper than his son's, and filled with a confidence so deep that no cutting words are necessary to make it clear. Nick can tell that Sebastian tries to emulate his father, but that his efforts are like a crayon drawing trying to reproduce the Sistine Chapel.

"Sebastian is sick." Nick speaks without pretext. He's not sure how to start the conversation. Butterflies fill his stomach. Sebastian's father is a powerful man.

He pauses, waiting for Mr. Smythe to say something. When there is no response, he continues. "He's tired, confused, almost comatose."

"Did my son say what's wrong?" John Smythe's voice is gentle, but there is a hardness behind it.

"No, but I think he has ketones?" Nick feels the words rush out of him. "He doesn't know I'm calling. I'm just worried."

Nick watches as the previously unconscious Sebastian runs out of bed. He hears more retching through the bathroom door.

"Sebastian is throwing up, again."

Mr. Smythe sighs. "I'll be there as soon as I can, Nick. It will take me maybe, half an hour. Try to get some water into him, if you can. And, thank you."

"You're welcome," Nick says quietly. "I'll see you soon."

The phone clicks.

Nick picks up a water bottle and follows his roommate into the bathroom. Sebastian's body is once again actively purging. It rolls over him like waves, the nausea taking control of everything in the boy.

Sebastian accepts the water bottle, using it to rinse his mouth and throat. He spits into the toilet, a thin stream of yellowish liquid. He seems to defeated.

Nick is glad Sebastian's father is coming to take control.


	24. Chapter 24

_A/N: Writing this is SO MUCH more appealing than grading or redacting tonight, so… Happy Extra Chapter Sunday! Points for keeping reading this. Extra points if you get the movie reference, with of course, I DO NOT OWN. Also… if not mentioned, a normal blood sugar is around 100 mg/dl. Most people define high as about 180 mg/dl. _

Sebastian doesn't stir as his father walked into the room. His ramrod straight back and aura of power is all but gone as he sits beside his son's bed. John Smythe brushes Sebastian's bangs off his forehead, and takes his son's hand. Nick watches as the father expertly, although not as expertly as the son would have, uses the small black case of Sebastian's drawer of secrets to draw blood. He feels like an intruder on an intimate family moment.

Sebastian stirs and rolls over as his father nurses his finger. Blood blooms like a ruby on the side.

"Hurh? Dad?" He asks, looking like a quizzical little boy.

"You're 500, Bastian," his father says quietly, almost tenderly. "Do you want me to bolus for you?"

Sebastian's pale cheeks tinge with pink. "I disconnected and took long acting and short acting."

Nick is amazed at how well Mr. Symthe keeps his cool. He can tell the older man is frustrated, maybe even angry, with his son, but only because he knows Sebastian. "And your ketones?"

"Extra large," Sebastian admits quietly. He gets a panicky look on his face. "I'm gonna puke."

Nick hurries over to the pair, offering his empty wastebasket. Sebastian's body contorts as he empties all the water Nick got into him between the last round of vomiting and this one. The watery puke smells acrid.

"How many times?" Nick isn't sure if Sebastian's father is asking him or his son.

"A few," Sebastian says, dismissively. "But, I'm fine, Dad."

He wipes his mouth with his towel, wincing, and starts to get up. Nick is amazed to see that Mr. Smythe's hand is all it takes to keep Sebastian on the bed.

"Really, Bastian?" The older man's eyes are dark as he asks the question.

Sebastian shakes his head. He looks like he wants to cry, but Sebastian would never cry in front of Nick, or his father, or anyone.

"Fine," he almost whispers in defeat.

Mr. Smythe goes to Sebastian's dresser and removes a set of clean clothes: Jeans, boxers, a t-shirt and a sweatshirt. He turns away as Sebastian puts them on, mechanically.

"Nick, do you want to come with us to the ER?" He asks his son's friend, quietly.

Nick isn't sure what to say. When Sebastian gets better… if Sebastian gets better, he will exact a revenge on the person who has seen him so vulnerable. But, its like a traffic accident, and he's not sure he can look away.

"Okay," he says, quietly.

Sebastian's father nods gravely, and waits for Nick to get his coat. Then, he leads the two boys through the silent dormitory halls, past the rector's office, and to his waiting car.

He buckes Sebastian into the front seat, tenderly, and hands him an airsickness bag.

"Hey, Bas, if you're gonna spew, spew in this," He says, a half smile playing over his lips.

As Sebastian's lips jerk upward, Nick thinks he may have witnessed one of his roommate's only genuine smiles in his entire time at Dalton.


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: Thank you everyone for all the nice reviews. I don't say it enough, but reviews make my life!_

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Nick can't help admire the ride. His mother drives a van that still has cheerios ground into the seat and his father bought a hand-me-down company lease. The soft leather seats and the smoothness of the car don't seem to help Sebastian, though.

Sebastian leans back against the white leather car seat, sucking on a mint his father has just handed him. His eyes are close, and his skin is almost the same hue as the upholstery. With his hair ungelled and his sickly palor, Sebastian Smythe looks nothing like his usual self.

"Do you want one?" Sebastian offers quietly, passing Nick a small plastic package from the glove compartment.

John Smythe glances over at his son. "Do you need more in your car? I'll get some when you come home."

Sebastian shakes his head gently. "I want tabs, instead," he says quietly. "No one tries to eat them for fun."

Nick feels guilty. The last time the Warblers rode with Sebastian, someone had gotten into his glove compartment look for maps and discovered food. Seb was snarky about it, but no more than were going through the supply of Sweet tarts and Airheads like it wasn't a big deal. In retrospect, maybe Sebastian just hadn't wanted to call attention to it.

When they arrive, Nick helps Sebastian into the emergency entrance while his father parks the car. In addition to the mint, Nick smells a strange, sweet smell on Sebastian's breath.

They sit together on the hard plastic chairs as Mr. Smythe registers his son at the desk. The mantra of power has slipped back over Sebastian's father's shoulders. Its hard for Nick to see the father underneath the lawyer.

The emergency room lobby is busier than Nick would have expected for a Thursday morning in February. He's surprised, though, when Sebastian is the second patient called back by the charge nurse. He wonders John Smyth has exercised his power, or if Sebastian's condition really does rank somewhere above severe abdominal pain but below a gunshot or heart attack.

Nick stays behind in the lobby as the charge nurse takes his friend back. He tries to distract himself with the cooking show on TV, but Mr. Smythe comes to get him from the waiting room before the big, red-headed Italian(?) chef even has his bacon in the pan.

Sebastian is lying back on a cot, and a female nurse is trying to put an IV in his arm. Sebastian is insistent on something. Even half dead, he is in command.

"Nick, can I hold your hand?" He asks, reaching out his right palm to his roommate. Nick takes it, and feels his fingers in a vice as the nurse slides the needle into Sebastian's veins.

He hopes the pain is worth it, and the doctors can give his friend something to control his wayward body.


	26. Chapter 26

_A/N: Now that Sebastian is going to be at least conscious, I've decided to turn narration back to him. Also, this chapter is written with Bryce in mind. I'm still sorry about the nail marks in your hand..._

God, he hates IV's. He hates the feeling of the needle passing into his vein. He hates how the nurse holds it in place until they can get the tape down. He hates how his arm aches every time he moves it, so he's placed it across his body. He hates that the fluid through the tubing is so cold. It makes his whole hand and his arm feel numb. But, most of all, he hates the reminder of just how sick he is.

With the wide plastic tube in his arm, and the needle out, he has released Nick's fingers. His roommate is trying to hide the fact that he's stretching his hand. His frightened grip is powerful.

His father hovers by the uncomfortable plastic chairs. He's not sure if he's angry with Nick for calling his father or not.

The objective, rational part of his brain knows that he's dehydrated and having trouble keeping down water. He knows that hydration is key to clearing the ketones from his system, to lowering his blood sugar, and to keeping his cells from turning into crumpled up balls of nothing.

Unfortunately, he's not sure his rational self is in control. Primal emotions are so much easier to process than rational thought. And, he is Angry and Frustrated. He just wanted a break: a day off to catch up on his life and sleep.

Now, Nick and his father are looking at him like he's a dying man.

He hates his body. There is no good reason for it to turn against him and destroy perfectly good cells. Not just any perfectly good cells, but perfectly good cells that most people take for granted. He didn't know what he had until it was ripped away from him. Now, he bounces between doing a difficult and imperfect job of what his cells did so easily, and saying to hell with it all, and letting everything push on with minimal effort.

His father and Nick both jump at the slight knock on his door. He's in a small room with windows, so everyone can see in and out, but the doctors and nurses like to pretend they're preserving his privacy. It's not as bad as the Peds ICU where he spent the night when he was first diagnosed. At least here, they let him close the curtains and the floor doesn't echo with the silence of sick and dying children.

He rallies, preparing himself mentally for what ever may come. Then, his body decides to play one last trick. He has time to grab the pink molded plastic basin with his good arm as his father welcomes the doctor into the room.

As he pukes, he wonders who will be in control of this visit.


	27. Chapter 27

_A/N: I apologize for not getting this out last night. Real life got in the way._

He looks up from the basin at his doctor. She looks young, but tough.

"Sebastian?" The doctor asks. He nods. She offers her hand, but he shakes his head. He's too busy keeping his mouth shut and his good arm around his basin. Instead she shakes his father's hand. "I'm Dr. Blake. Mr. Smythe, if you could step outside for a moment, we need some privacy."

He wonders what she's going to do that requires privacy. His father and Nick have already both seen him naked, physically and emotionally, today. His father is not pleased. The transition from concerned, protective father to attorney is a subtle, yet palpable change.

"Bastian is sixteen," His father argues. "What ever you need to do or ask, you can do with me present."

"I need to make sure the information I get is accurate," Dr. Blake responds, calmly. "I find its easier without parents or guardians."

"Bas, you'll tell her the truth if I stay?" Anxious father is back.

He sighs. The truth is that he isn't sure if he wants his father or not. On of the one hand, he feels sick and he wants someone to take care of him. On the other hand, his father tends to monopolize his doctor's visits.

"Would you go get me a bottle of water?" He asks his father, sounding pitiful. "And maybe get yourself some coffee? It's going to be a long day.

Dr. Blake looks at him sidelong, and waits for his father to leave the room. Nick quietly follows Mr. Smythe out.

"You're not allowed to eat or drink anything." Dr. Blake is blunt. He shrugs, the movement making his arm hurt.

She starts examining him, asking questions all the while.

No, he doesn't smoke.

Yes, he drinks, maybe once a week.

No, he's not a virgin. Yes, he has been sexually active in the last six months, but always with protection.

Yes, he's an athlete, and a singer and a dancer.

Yes, he knows what caused the ketones. Her skilled fingers probe the tender pink lump where his infusion set used to be.

No, he doesn't feel feverish. He doesn't mention that he doesn't run fevers.

Yes, it hurts very much when she presses on his abdomen, but he also has to pee really badly.

Yes, he thinks he can make it to the bathroom on his own.

Dr. Blake finishes the exam, and expertly disconnects his arm. She loops the tube back on itself, and hands him a cup. "Call the nurse when you're back," she orders, walking with him to the small bathroom.

He goes inside and sinks onto the toilet. He feels a little bit faint, and isn't sure he can stand up. He's glad no one is there to see him.

He cleans himself up, and splashes a little water into his mouth. He's not supposed to have anything orally, but having control over his own healthcare has emboldened him.


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: Had this chapter bumping around in my head. Did something somewhat stupid last night, so am exhausted today. Hopefully I caught all the stupid mistakes._

He spends most of his day engaged in one of three activities: dozing, dry heaving, and begging everyone from the doctor, to his father, to a candy-striper who comes into check if he needs a heated blanket, to give him something to drink for the love of god. No one seemed to love god, or him, enough to even bring him ice chips.

At least Nick has the good grace to leave the room before he eats or drinks something. His father alternates between hovering with his favorite pink basin, rubbing his back, and when he thinks his son is asleep, reading legal briefs on iPhone while drinking coffee.

He still feels the crap, but the cat naps he catches between nurses coming to draw his blood for lab and his body's constant need to get rid of _something_ through one of two orifices.

Its around four o'clock when he wakes up to hear his father and Nick talking. He keeps his eyes closed and listens.

"… was scared" Nick says, quietly. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone throw up so much."

He would respond with snark to his roommate, advising him not to join a fraternity. His father is more understanding. "I was scared the first time it happened, too. When Bastian was little… when he first got sick … and we brought him to the hospital in the middle of the night, he threw up every time he moved out of bed."

His father pauses, no doubt to find the picture of his young son that he keeps on his phone.

"He didn't want to come," Nick says, quietly. "He was mad when I told him you called. He was lying on his bed, naked, half dead, and he was still mad that I called."

His father sighs. "Bastian doesn't want anyone to know that he's diabetic. He used to get teased at his old school… people calling him names and telling him what he could and couldn't do. A few of his teachers tried to confiscate him pump… the thing that gives him insulin and keeps him alive."

"I don't think he would have told me, if he didn't have to." Nick says, quietly.

"I'm glad he did," His father says. "I worry Bas is too independent, and he doesn't know when to ask for help. You're a good friend."

"If I was a good friend," Nick says, his voice quiet and serious, "I would have woken up last night and helped him sooner."

"You can't help someone who doesn't want it," His father says, in the same serious tone. "And, Sebastian doesn't want help. He wants people to think he's in control of his life, even when he's not."


	29. Chapter 29

They tell him they'll release him around 7 pm. He has not vomited in four hours. His ketones barely register pink on the little urine test strip. His blood sugar is lower than it's been in weeks. Both his father and Nick look relieved. Eight hours in the emergency room watching someone sleep is a long time.

He and Nick chat about their song selection for regionals as he tries to change into his own clothes. He manages the jeans all right, but it's impossible to get out of the hospital gown and into his own clothes still connected to the IV. He leans back against the propped-up head of his cot and waits.

He feels so weak, and so undignified, unable to dress himself. He prays Nick will not tell anyone about what has happened. He doubts he will ever be able to look his roommate in the eyes again, in the same way. He wonders if he can keep up his protective wall against the world, now that someone other than his fathers or his doctors has seen him like this: worse than helpless.

The doctor, whose name is fuzzy now, comes in for her final exam. She lets his father stay. She checks his heart and his lungs again, then unhooks the IV.

She looks him in the eyes, and hands him a card. "If you think you're going to do this again," she says quietly and knowingly, "will you call them, first?"

He looks at her questioningly, but accepts the card. He doesn't know how she's seen through him, and he doesn't want to ask.

Once the doctor leaves, he pulls off his hospital gown, and pulls on his own shirt, slowly. He uses his nails to get purchase on the IV tape. He rips it out with practice. Unfortunately, his arm is harrier than his stomach, and the tape hurts more coming out. He can already see a bruise forming under the skin as he holds paper towel to his bleeding elbow.

Discharge papers in hand, his father leads him out to the curb. Nick waits with him, while his father goes to pull around the car. He tries to remain standing, but he's still so tired. He thinks about sinking into one of the wheelchairs in the ER entrance, but he has his pride. He leans against the wall and breathes through his nose, waiting for his father to arrive with the car.

He climbs into the back seat of the BMW, and slumps against the window. He buckles his seatbelt independently this time, and waits for his father to start the engine. Instead, John Smythe turns to his son, and asks gently, "What did Dr. Blake mean, 'do this again'?"

He shrugs and lies convincingly. "She made a mistake, what happened was out of my control, Dad."


	30. Chapter 30

He grinds his teeth as his father pulls through the wrought iron gates of Dalton Academy. He still feels like a load of crap. He is exhausted. Getting from the Emergency Room Gurney to his father's car was like running a marathon. He may not longer be slowly consuming himself, but he still doesn't have much energy.

He knows he looks like crap as well. He's not as vain as lady-face Hummel, but he cares about his looks to some degree. His bangs are hanging limply over his eyes, and he's squinting a little since his contacts and glasses are in his room. He could carry a week's worth of clothes in his under eye bags. And, he still has hospital cooties on him.

He is able to evaluate his condition objectively, as though his mind disconnects from his body. He's lost maybe five pounds today, not a big deal. A few days of rest and he'll be fine again. He's not sure he can deal with the psychological ramifications as easily. This is just another reminder of something he's been trying to forget for a long time: it's rare that he's not the sickest person in a room.

Nick pounds up the stairs, and he follows slowly. He doesn't have the energy to run.

He sinks onto his bed, and fishes a vial from his dresser. He goes through the motions of preparing a new infusion site. His motions are not necessarily the pump-company suggested set. He's glad his father is down talking with the rector.

He lies down, arches his back, and pulls up his shirt. He pinches an inch of flesh off his stomach, and jams the needle in at an angle. He can feel it tearing through scar tissue and veins. He doesn't know why, but it always hurts more when he's high.

He packs an overnight bag for a few days at home. Shoes, a few collared shirts, a sweater. He shoves the bottle of insulin and an extra infusion set deep into his bag. He brushes his teeth, and collects his toothbrush and razor from the bathroom.

He's surprised when Nick joins him outside the rector's office.

"Your dad invited me to dinner, since I missed it here," Nick says quietly.

Armed with this knowledge, he plans to use the dinner invitation to his advantage: damage control.

_A/N: I don't normally do this, and I have quite a few ideas, but if anyone has questions at this point, please let me know! Nick has a few, and Sebastian may or may not answer them (probably snarkily) at dinner. If Seb doesn't his father probably will. I'll wait an extra day before posting the next chapter if there's no response._


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: Okay, I waited two days. Have not quite figured out how to answer BlueCharlotte's question, so here is dinner._

He would normally lounge against the counter, attacking the Pad Thai directly out of the take-out box and swigging lemonade from the bottle, but his father insists on the niceties of plates and sharing. And, the way he's feeling, sitting feels good. So, he, his father and his roommate make an awkward triangle as they pass rice noodles and ginger chicken to each other across the table.

After a while of thoughtful chewing, Nick breaks the silence. "So, is someone going to explain exactly what happened today?" His voice is even, but there is an under current to it.

His father puts down his chopsticks. "I'd like to know the same thing. You don't normally let things get _this_ out of hand, Bastian."

He's not sure what defined the situation getting "out of hand". The fact that his blood sugar reached a number so high, commercial meters couldn't read it? The fact that his body spent hours trying to balance the acidosis it had been driven into by purging? Or, that someone had seen through the veil of lies he had built up around himself and refused to believe his bs?

"My infusion set ripped out. I guess I didn't notice." Maintain a pattern of truth and semi truth.

He father looks at him skeptically. "You didn't feel what looks like a staph infection?"

He raises his eyebrow at his father, wondering when the other man got a view.

"It was pretty obviously when you tried to fight me before we went to the hospital," His father explains. "In fact, I think I touched it and you slapped my hand away."

He will not admit having no memory of this.

"Why should your site ripping out matter?" Nick asks, matter of fact. "It's not like you ever wear your beeper anyway."

"I do wear it!" His response is quick and insistent, although not quick enough to prevent his father turning an interesting set of colors. "Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it's not there." He takes a bite of chicken, then adds as an after thought, "Besides, its not a pager. It's a pump."

"Then why does it keep beeping at 2 am?" Nick insists. "It woke me up a few times last night." He stabs a piece of tofu with his chopsticks.

His father does not look pleased about the revelation.

"It was to remind me I needed to give it more insulin!" He bursts out. "I try to keep track, but sometimes it's nice to have a reminder six or eight hours before I need to change the thing. It's not my fault that I occasionally happen to hit that mark around 2 am."

"How am I supposed to know that?" Nick sounds rational and calm as he asks. "It's not like you ever explained it to me. What does your 'pump' do, measure your blood sugar?"

He looks at his roommate in shock. "I didn't get the 'measure blood sugar' feature," He says. "It's supposed to keep my blood sugar in control."

His father shakes his head. "No, Bastian," he says, seriously. "You're supposed to keep your blood sugar in control."


	32. Chapter 32

He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out through his mouth before he lets his anger take control of him. It has been a very long time since he has punched someone in the face, and his roommate, who is strangely enough, one of his few allies, is probably not the best place to start.

Nick doesn't mean any harm. His father doesn't mean any harm. They just don't understand what its like. Their bodies just work, without having to think about it. They have never been told by people that its their fault they're sick, if they had just eaten better or exercised more, they wouldn't have gotten this disease. Their mother never looked over her grocery list from the days of their diagnosis and blamed herself. And, they've never had to come to terms with the fact that they're dying. They didn't have to face the real and present danger earlier that afternoon, sliding into home plate just before ball with their name on it makes it in.

Maybe, though, they're scared… for him. He makes a decision, and moves to the seat next to Nick. He unclips the pump from his belt, and uses the four buttons on the front to unlock the screen.

"The computer runs the thing," He explains, sounding authoritative. "It gives a base dose every hour, to keep things running. Then, when I eat, I give myself a bolus." He presses a series of buttons, and the pump chirps. "The insulin goes from the reservoir here, to my site." He pulls up his shirt, and shows Nick the white patch on his stomach.

He realizes this is the first time he's explained his pump to someone who wasn't already a medical professional. Doctors and nurses, especially ones who never encountered a pump before, always wanted to see it. Even then, he's quick and callous. He's never quite rude, but it's always a near thing.

"So, you have to wear that all the time?" Nick asks.

"Except in the shower," He smiles, tiredly. "I get to take it off for a whole fifteen minutes every day."

"And there's a needle in your belly."

This is a question he dreads. People get skittish around needles. "No, there was a needle in my belly. Now there is a little plastic tube." A bit of snark laces his words. He's feeling better.

"And it's not going to alarm at night any more, now that you've shown it to me?" Maybe Nick isn't as light a sleeper as he though.

He snorts. "Fat chance."

He goes back to his seat, and takes a sip of water. Suddenly, he feels full and tired. "Can I be excused?" He asks, almost politely.

His father and Nick let him go.

As he climbs into bed, he wonders if maybe he's been wrong about people all along. Maybe soft power, not hard anger, is the key to control.


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: My muse has been distracted by another project. I got him to focus for a short chapter, but more to come soon, I promise. This chapter is dedicated to my parents, especially my dad._

He wakes up in the middle of the night to find his father at his bedside, a flashlight clutched between his teeth. He remembers how his dad used to come into his room every night to test his blood sugar. Sometimes, he would pretend to be asleep, although its pretty hard to ignore a light in your face and a prick to your finger. Other times, like tonight, he would roll over and take the lancet device from his dad. His father was never good at getting blood from his fingers.

"Bas, you need to bolus," his father whispers before he can roll over and go back to sleep.

In the old days, his father would have dosed him, but he isn't sure his father knows how to work his pump anymore. He can't think of the last person, before Nick, who he let touch his pump while it was still connected to his body. He cannot think of a single person he trusts enough to put his life in their hands.

Even half asleep, he presses the buttons that will deliver the dose. Then, he falls back asleep while his father steals off to bed.

For the first time in a long time, his diabetes might actually be under control.


	34. Chapter 34

When he comes back to school, things are better. The whispers about him have died down: A senior in advanced psychology started a rumor that he wet his pants, which spread like wildfire.

He wonders what Nick said the day he spent at home convalescing and reading about Watergate. Most of the people he considered friends before his fall to grace greet him warmly. Trent gives him a real hug and a kiss on the cheek; more reserved Jeff and David give him "man" hugs.

Only Freshman Andrew won't look him in the eyes. When he enters a room, the younger boy will study his own perfectly polished shoes (a Dalton requirement, not an indication of his sexuality), his rounded fingernails (not straight) or become very interested in something about five feet behind him and over his left shoulder.

They're eating lunch together two or three days after he came back. It's not something he would ever admit, but he's still not 100%. The protein and fat stores he lost during his brush with death need time to rebuild themselves. So, he's hungry. He's craving meat, and his lunch tray is a testament to his deep desire for protein. He's halfway through his second chicken breast when Andrew finally gets the courage to ask him a question.

"Should you be eating that?" the younger boy queries, pointing to the chocolate pudding cup he has sitting on his tray. Unlike a lot of places, the cafeteria makes their pudding from scratch with real chocolate, and it may be one of his favorite foods in the whole world.

He decides to play it cool, which means that Andrew is suddenly at the end of his snark. "I can afford it more than you can," He says, coolly. He walks away before he does more damage.

He thinks he should really avoid Andrew. Countertenors are hard to come by, more so when they actually hit puberty. Even if he is the head of the Warbler council, the rest of the group will not look kindly on physical harm to the one boy who can hit high notes.

He finds his roommate in the library. Nick is frantically scratching at a piece of notebook paper with triangles.

"SOHCAHTOA," he breathes in Nick's ear. Nick jumps satisfyingly.

"Jeeze, Seb!" He whispers. "Why do you have to sneak up on me?"

"Did you tell the guys about … this?" He half draws the pump out from its hiding place in the gray pocket of his trousers. He thinks about giving himself a bolus for his food, but he's in public.

"Only Jeff , Trent, and David" Nick says. When his roommate looks angry, he starts to get defensive. "I couldn't deal. I'd just watched my roommate spend a day vomiting and then show me his cyborg parts."

"Andrew?" He asks.

"No idea," Jeff says quietly.

He vows to talk to Trent, Jeff and David. And to figure out how to do damage control with Andrew.


	35. Chapter 35

_Another short one… but I wrote a page and a half of thesis today, so that counts for something!_

He catches Trent alone in the choir room. The sassy Warbler is plunking out something on the piano that might be _Schadenfreude_, if the pianist was engaging in the titular emotion. It's all he can do not to shut the lid on his friend's fingers. It's that bad.

"Can I talk to you about something?" He hates that his voice sounds tentative, and young.

Trent shrugs, and stops torturing the piano.

"What Nick told you..." His voice trails off.

Trent smiles. "I've known for a while."

"You have?"

"Since that night that we played strip euchre," Trent says. "You took off your pump, and left it on your clothes."

His eyes widen.

"My best friend from growing up is diabetic," the Sassy Warbler explains. He pauses for a minute. "I know about shots and testing and stuff. Just so you know, I'm here if you need help."

He isn't sure what to say. He feels a lump in his throat. "Thanks," he says gruffly. He isn't sure why, but he feels tears prickling at the corner of his eyes.

He brushes out of the music room as Trent hits a particularly sour cord. He walks, almost runs, to the men's room and locks himself in the only stall. It's only when he's alone that he lets his shoulders shake and the tears slide down his cheeks.

For once, he lets his emotions take control.


	36. Chapter 36

He takes a fortifying sip of his coffee. It has cooled to the point that he won't scald his tongue or the roof of his mouth, but no so much to loose the comforting warmth. He inhales deeply, trying to draw in strength along with the heady scent.

He can't think of the last time he was this nervous. He's had performance jitters before. But, instead of filling itself with a pack of butterflies, his stomach is clenching down into a ball of iron. If he let himself, he might start rocking back and forth. If he let himself, he might run away. Instead, he takes another long sip of coffee.

His stomach drops lower, and his feet feel icy in his shoes, as though blood does not flow down his long legs.

Part of him feels like he should get up and run. He looks around the room jumpily. He feels like prey being cornered by the hunter. He needs to get a hold of himself.

He takes another sip of coffee and another steadying breath. He can do this. He is in control.

Jeff, Nick and David walk over to the table with their drinks. Only David has the good sense to drink hot coffee. Jeff is carrying something pink and fluffy with lots of whipped cream, and Nick has his usual green tea.

They're at a big chain coffee shop populated by a cohort of hipsters and business pounding on iPhones. Both groups give the Dalton Blazer's wide birth, especially when they see the Warbler on David's lapel. Apparently the Dalton Warblers are infamous in Westerville. He imagines it may have something to do with the club's tendency to jump on furniture.

"So…" David's voice trails off uncomfortably.

He is clearly not the only uncomfortable person. Part of him wishes Trent had come. Nick has Jeff and David as his allies. He feels alone, even though he knows they're all here to support him.

"So, about what Nick told you?" He sounds tentative, but his voice does not shake or crack. He is grateful for the small things. "Do you, like, have questions?" He hates filler words. He has strived to strike them from his vocabulary. It's a sign of how nervous he is that things slip into his vocabulary.

Jeff looks uncomfortable. "Not right now," He says, quietly.

David sips his coffee. "Is there anything we need to do to help?"

"Don't tell anyone, please." The words rush out before he means them to. "Other than that, I'm handling it fine."

Nick mutters something that sounds like "Bull shit. You're out of control."


	37. Chapter 37

_A/N: So, I was trolling fan fic the other night (instead of writing or grading my pile of lab reports), and I came across this great fic, _The Trouble with Blaine_. It's a wholly different perspective on diabetes, plus it has all the shenanigans of CP Coulter's Dalton. Two words: Gavel Pajamas. AMAZING READ, and one I totally recommend if you're into this for the diabetes (I realize some of you just like seeing me torture Seb, but hey, what ever floats your boat). I'm also giving a shout out to Corey and Steph. Now, I'm off to finish grading Enzyme Kinetics and to polish up my data. More tomorrow, I promise._

It's a bad day, even though he'll never admit it.

After a week of cold sunshine, a cold, dark Monday came as a shock. When his alarm goes off, he's not sure he can even get out of bed. Bed is safe, and he has a sinking feeling it will not be a good day. But, he gets out of bed anyway. Mind over matter. He is in control.

His prediction is correct.

For some reason, he cannot make sense of the change of base theorem or the derivative of logs. The rest of the class jumps on the theory easily, but the word "Log" conjures up British Transvestite comedians in this mind. He wonders how hard it would be to get Trent into a plaid shirt to Sing, Sing, Sing!

He gets back the history essay he wrote during his convalescence with his father. C. He won't admit it, but American History is hard. Ask him to rattle off Hasburgs of Spain, and he can do, almost without a second thought (although the Phillips sometimes get confusing). But, he's not sure it really matters how Utah, where ever that is, became a state, or if potatoes come from Iowa or Idaho.

It doesn't matter, though because a C is unacceptable. His father will not be pleased, but, more importantly, he's disappointed in himself. A C is a crack in the perfect facade of his life.

Then, in Warbler practice, he feels the haze coming on. He is normally able to process many things at once, his braining planning the next set of chorography while simultaneously listening for flat notes. It's all he can do now to focus on the words of his next solo.

Thankfully, practice ends before the panic sets in, and he makes it upstairs before anyone can pick up on the subtle hints that things are not quite right.

While the rest of the Warblers eat in the dining hall that looks like Hogwarts, he is curled on his bed. A million thoughts run through his head.

Failure. Failure. Failure. He is a failure. No one will want him. No One. NO ONE. He will not get into college. Failure. Failure. Failure.

He rocks back and forth to the words. The world is closing in. He's not sure he can do it anymore. And, what he wants more than anything is to give himself an out. Give himself ketones. Not bad enough to go to the hospital, but enough to shut down his brain and let him sleep. Because ketones control the crippling anxiety.


	38. Chapter 38

_A/N: I know this chapter is all about romance, and that now I've added Nick as one of the featured characters, according to fan fiction tradition, this needs to get a little slash. I can't do it. _

"Happy SAD!" Trent greets him warmly at Warbler's practice, handing him a small box of chocolate.

He studies it. "Are these … sugar free?" He tries to keep the disgust out of his voice. He's resolved to be nicer to these people who are tentatively becoming his friends. It would be rude to tell Trent that "sugar-free" and "diabetic friendly" things usually have carbs, too. It would be rude to mention that sugar alcohol, sorbitol and sucralose all give him worse diarrhea than when the dining hall serves tacos.

Trent nods proudly, then stands awkwardly for a moment, waiting.

He's not sure if he's supposed to hug the other boy, but thankfully the moment passes when Trent spies someone in the shifty crowd and goes off to Singles Awareness Sparkle, to their day.

It's not the first time he's been single on Valentines Day. In fact, he can count on his fingers the number of times he's been in anything that could be termed a "relationship" in the past sixteen years.

Deep down, there is part of him that knows some day, he wants to be a daddy. He sees beautiful families with beautiful children, and he's filled with longing. Someday, he wants to have that unconditionally safe love, that feeling of completeness that comes from finding his other half.

He's not sure he will ever be able to let anyone close enough to find that other half. The one-night stands, the threesomes … foursomes … fivesomes, the speed sex, it's easier than letting anyone close. He enjoys the physical pleasure, and ignores the emptiness in his heart and head.

He keeps romance, and love at arm's length, because he is broken. No one who knows his brokenness will be able to love him. And, if he loves someone, he's not sure he can subject him to his brokenness.

How do you tell someone you love that you're going to leave them before you're ready? How do you look them in the eyes that are young and full of promise and tell them you will not grow old together? How do you let the person you love see you on death's door over and over again until you finally slip over the threshold?

But, how can you say you are in love if you lie about something so big?

He knows he cannot control other people, but he can keep them safe by controlling himself.


	39. Chapter 39

_A/N: For readers familiar with pumps, I'm envisioning Seb on a Medtronic Paradigm and using silhouettes or quick sets. He's probably the type of guy who just sticks the blasted things in without an inserter. On another note, I may be a little bit more spare in updating the next few days. I'm setting a goal for every 48 hours instead of every 24 because I have a draft of my thesis due Friday and a term paper next Tuesday. So, please excuse the intrusion of real life into this sacred place. C65_

He has to get out. His life is getting monotonous, and if he has to experience another minute of the BS that is routine, he will scream.

He gets up, and showers. He tests, and texts his father his blood sugar. It's a new system his father put in place after the day spent in the emergency room. He hates it.

He goes to class from eight to three, listening to endless lectures and answering endless questions about things he doesn't really care about. Why does it matter if he can conjugate the past participle of _ire_? It's not like anyone speaks Latin, anymore.

Then, he tests and texts his father at lunch, and then again at 3:30. Then, it's off to Warbler's practice where they sing and dance and look pretty. It's fun, but it feels empty.

He tests texts, and eats dinner.

He does his homework, test and texts again, and goes to bed.

He's not going to bed tonight. He's not even sure he will come home to bed. He tests his blood sugar, anyway, and texts his father the number. He gets an XP as a reply. He's pretty sure his father doesn't understand emoticons.

He disconnects his pump to change clothes. Normally, he would just use the release at his site, squeeze the white tabs and let the tubing fall to the ground with his pants. But, today he pulls it out of his pocket, threading the tubing carefully.

He puts on his rugby shirt, pulls on the jeans that show off his ass so well. He stares at the small white oval on his stomach. He studies the little black device on the bed, a little thicker than a first generation iPod and about half as long.

He doesn't want to wear it on his belt, for fear that it will get disrupted while he's dancing. He hates the way it makes the ass of his jeans sag. Fat rectangles mess up the lines of perfect butt cheeks. Imagine if Ryan Phillipe had stuck something small and rectangular to his perfect posterior in _Cruel Intentions_. Not sexy at all. He presses a few buttons to stop the flow of insulin, and wraps the tubing around his pump.

He goes over to three quarter mirror hanging off the bathroom door, and lifts his shirt. The field of hated white scars stare back at him, their crowning glory the white, clinical looking patch. The black of tried blood shows against the edge. It looks ugly… it makes him look sick. Before he can think of what he's doing, he rips the patch off his stomach.

If he allowed himself to feel remorse or regret for what he did to himself, he might have felt it a few minutes later. But he does not allow himself that weakness. Instead, he goes and draws a dose of the cloudy insulin, injecting life into his leg.

Tonight, he will not worry about his health. Tonight, his hormones can take control.


	40. Chapter 40

_A/N: Sorry for the delay. My thesis draft took longer than I expected, but it's done. Now, I just have a problem set and term paper. Sigh. Anyway, disclaimer on this chapter that things may get darker. Have not decided how dark I want things to go, but this is a warning._

By the time he arrives at Scandals, he knows he wants to be taken home tonight. He is very clear in his mind that he wants to be taken. Not necessarily in a sexual way, but tonight, he wants to give over a little control to someone else. He wants to be the little spoon, and to be held all night long. Held, mind you, not doing the holding. When they kiss each other, he wants to the one being kissed and not the one to initiate. So, he is on the prowl tonight for a taker.

It feels like a lifetime since anyone has touched him in a caring way. His mother is an affectionate woman. When he lived with her, she was always doing little things: straightening his school tie in the morning, or ruffling his hair, or pulling him into little side hugs. His father isn't so good at showing affection: he'll shake hands or pat his son on the shoulder. The Warblers don't hug each other, either. At least, not the way he craves to be touched.

So, he is on the prowl for someone to take him and touch him and make him feel like a human being again. And, knowing that, he shows what he has to offer.

He's at the Jute box, picking a song to shake his perfect ass to, when a bigger, sweat, young guy leans over and asks him, "So, How do you get a guy to like you?"

He's thinking, _Go Away!_ He knows this guy cannot take, only be taken. "You get a guy," he says, cooly.

"Why, what's wrong with me?" The guy asks. This bear cub seems to want to be taken as badly as he does.

He uses snark as a defense mechanism, and gives it to the guy. "Well, first off, you are about a hundred pounds over weight. Quit waxing your eyebrows, you look like Liberache. In fact, just stay in the closet."

He ignores the hurt look on the bigger boy's face as he goes to dance. But, he his here for a reason.

It takes a few tries, and a few false starts, but finally, a stranger picks him out and brings him a drink.

One drink turns into two.

Two drinks turn into four.

Drink five becomes an invitation back to the man's place. He's a little woosy, but he thinks he can stay in control.


	41. Chapter 41

_A/N: Sorry for the delay. Crisis one averted. Crisis two currently being take care of. Crisis three I'll handle tomorrow afternoon. Had a talk with my muse… and Steph. They told me that what I had planned would probably kill poor Seb, and that I should wait for another day. So, I'm heading their advice. Not quite as dark as I initially envisioned, but I hope you enjoy._

He wakes up alone and disoriented in a stranger's bed. His mouth tastes like death and dryness. His teeth are fuzzy, and his face is greasy. The finest stubble graces his cheeks. If he were more effeminate, like lady face Hummel, maybe, his mascara would be giving him a raccoon mask.

He is sore.

He feels dirty.

He feels like a whore.

He's not entirely sure why he is awake and alert. It's still dark outside; the only illumination in the room comes from the yellow glow of a streetlight. Without checking his watch, or disturbing the stranger taking up most of the bed, he estimates it to be between five and six in the morning. It's far too early for his body to be responsive.

He is shaking.

Maybe he's awake because he has to vomit. His stomach is an angry, twisted ball in his gut. It wants to force out any vestiges of alcohol left in his system. He steals out of bed without disturbing its owner.

The bathroom is a communal affair at the end of the hall, unlike the private in-suites he's used to. He is sure he will catch something, going barefoot on the cold, dry tile. There is something that feels infinitely unclean about being barefoot on a communal bathroom floor. Maybe its all the horror stories he's heard about athlete's foot and gangrene.

He kneels in front of the toilet, naked expect for his boxers, and tickles the back of his throat with his finger. He's done it a few times before.

Bile and alcohol, emptiness and hopelessness, they all flood out into the white porcelain bowl.

He's shaking when he stands, and his heart is pounding in his ears.

The realization of _why _he's awake, why he's shaking so badly, why he feels like he's run a marathon hit him slowly. And, with the realization, the shaking increases.

He goes back to the stranger's room, now blindingly dark after the well-illuminated corridor. Half blind, he dresses himself and fumbles with his wallet.

He's shaking as he takes the steps two at a time down. He would take the elevator, but the rational part of him knows that if he passes out, someone will find him more quickly here. The reverse argument that, passing out on a flight of stairs will cause greater injury, doesn't cross his mind.

He looks half crazy as his shaking hands lift a pair of crumpled ones to the bill acceptor of a coke machine he finds on the first floor. It takes a few tries, but finally, the machine spits out the blessed bottle of dark brown liquid.

He fumbles off the cap, and takes a long swig. The bottle is empty before he comes up for air.

As he sits in the dingy lobby of the dorm, waiting for the shaking to subside, he swears this is the last time.

Deep down, though, he knows it probably won't be. He is a base creature, and his cravings have control.


	42. Chapter 42

_A/N: Again, I apologize for the delay. I pulled an all nighter on Monday, and it really hit me last night, when I was planning to write this. But… all three crises have been dealt with. Now, I just have two classes and two finals between me and the end of the semester. Oh, I'll point out also that driving low is almost as dangerous as driving drunk and illegal._

He sucks his left pinky and he stares at the LED screen counting down in his lap. The last time five seconds lasted this eternity, he'd been trying to remember the name of Viola's twin in Twelfth Night.

The electronics crystalize into the number, 68. He's not technically street legal. , the instrument is only accurate within about 20% of the reading. So, he could actually be a very legal 83. His actions justified, he starts the car.

He pulls away from the college dorm and heads north.

He feels zen-like as he weaves through traffic, driving five miles over the speed limit. Zen-like and reckless. For once, his brain is turned off, and he's focused almost entirely on the road, and making it back to Dalton.

His driving gets more erratic as he approaches his destination. A well-dressed mother in a minivan gives him the finger as he passes her. He can't decide if its because he's blasting _Spring Awakening_, or if its because he's about to cut her off. Probably both.

When he pulls into Dalton, his hands are shaking, again. He reaches for the little black case in the glove compartment, and uses it to make another hole in side of his scarred finger. He sucks away the coppery, salty blood as he waits for the result.

His left knee bobs up and down, with a nervous vibration. But, long after his nerves should have calmed the shake, his leg keeps jumping as though a perpetual motion machine propels it. The movement is beyond his conscious though.

It doesn't actually matter what the number is, he realizes after a beat. The Warblers decimated his emergency supplies in the car, and they have not been replenished.

The number blinks to life. 48.

Adrenaline pumps in his veins as he walks across the parking lot. Inside he is trembling. But, like every Walk of Shame he has taken in his life, he makes this one with his head held high and a smirk on his face.

He makes it back to his room at 7:32 am, and locks the door behind him. Its only now, that he's alone, he lets the tight hold he's had go. The tremor he has held inside can no longer be contained, and he sinks onto his bed.

He fishes for the paper rolls of sweet tarts he keeps in the second drawer of his night stand, but his fingers close on empty paper curls.

He stares ahead, trying to get his thoughts to coalesce. Instead, his knees come to his chest, and his whole body rocks back and forth.

When Nick and Jeff come in from breakfast five minutes later, he's stopped shaking. Hypoglycemia has taken control of him, body and mind.


	43. Chapter 43

_A/N: Okay… first, I want to thank you all for your reviews. It was kind of a rough day, and getting them was AWESOME. Secondly, shout out to Steph for (1) convincing my muse to do things and (2) Pimping me out. So, thanks! _

Nick and Jeff stare for a moment, before they can react. The brunette recovers faster, maybe because he's been through this once before.

Nick kneels beside the catatonic Sebastian. He taps him on the shoulder, calling his name. Sebastian moans and gives him the bird. If Nick had any doubts in his mind about Sebastian not being himself, the gesture confirms it. The Dalton required emergency medical training kicks it, and Nick he takes his friend's pulse at his carotid. It's fast and strong. He listen's to Sebastian's shallow breathing, and identifies the crisis.

During that long day in the hospital, Mr. Smythe had explained things about diabetes to Nick that he hadn't been able to learn from a cursory search of Web MD. He explained that in addition to ketones, the other big danger is low blood sugar. Nick is pretty sure Sebastian is low, now.

"Jeff, go get Trent," he says, "And bring the Wesley Montgomery Memorial Pot of Honey."

Wes Montgomery, former Warbler leader and germaphobe, had been known for his impressive collection of throat protective measures. Honey was prominently featured in most of them. Upon his graduation, Wes had bequeathed David a large plastic bear of honey, a bag of lemons and a fifth of whiskey for "Irish Cough Syrup". The boys drank the whiskey, made faces with the lemon and kept the honey.

Jeff returns quickly with Trent, David, and the WMMPoH. Trent is carrying a coke. Before Nick can say anything, Trent is pouring honey onto his index finger and sticking in in Sebastian's mouth. Trent pours more honey on his finger, and inserts it again.

The boys watch with bated breath as color slowly returns to Sebastian's parchment color cheeks and blue lips. He stops rocking, first, and then his body slowly uncurls.

His hands are still shaking when Trent presses the Coke into them. He drinks greedily, without pausing to stop.

Only when the bottle is empty does Sebastian look up. "I'm fine," he says, only the slightest tremor in his voice. "I'll catch up with you in class, later."

Nick, David, Jeff, and Trent share a look. "Go on," Trent says, finally. "I've got this under control."


	44. Chapter 44

_A/N: So, I meant to say something here about not wanting to be insensitive, culturally. I'm willing to accept blame for any offense._

He and Trent just sit there, looking at each other. Trent is openly watching him shake, with a strange expression on his face. He knows it must be disgust. How can it be anything else? He knows the disease is disgusting. That's part of why he tries to hide it, to protect people.

He didn't know how bad things were until he was ten. That was the year his parents split up, and he moved to France with his mother. He was angry to be in a new place. He was angry at his father for choosing his job in Ohio over his mother… or maybe angry at his mother for choosing her job in France over his father. Either way, he wasn't happy.

At his old school in America, he had gone to the nurse everyday before lunch, but no one had cared. At this new school, the other boys made fun of him for going to the nurse.

Once, when they were playing soccer, he had to stop and prick his finger because he felt weak and shaky. They stared at the drop of blood, and they ran away.

For the rest of the year, they pointed and stared and whispered. "Don't go near him, he has the American AIDS!" They would say, just loud enough so that he could overhear, but not so loud the teachers knew.

In sixth grade, no one will play soccer with him or talk to him at lunch, so he starts eating in the library.

The first week of seventh grade, he has a low blood sugar the he ignores because he doesn't want to be different. He thinks he can hold out, but he can't. He has a seizure in front of the entire school, culminating in him peeing himself. After that, no will even speak to him in class.

Things do not improve in eighth grade. Everyone knew he was a freak, and no one would talk to him. So, he does things to make them. He's always bee smart, but now he decides to speak up. He gets harsh and snarky and funny.

When he moves back to the US with his father and starts his sophomore year at Dalton, he swears he will not be a target anymore. If no one knows how weak he is, no one can use it to harm him.

He is surprised that Nick, David, Jeff and Trent have been so nice. But, he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. And, seeing the look on Trent's face, which is half grimace, half look of deep thought, he knows that it will soon. His time of having allies, who might turn into friends, will be over soon.

He watches his friend, and wishes he could control time.


	45. Chapter 45

He breathes a sigh of relief when Trent leaves him alone. The fabulous Warbler watched him until he stopped shaking, then made him eat peanut butter crackers that had mysteriously appeared from somewhere. Satisfied that his captain was not in danger any more, Trent had sashayed off to second period in a cloud of rainbows, sparkles and fashionable broaches on his navy blazer.

He doesn't know why he is so relieved when Trent leaves. He wants so badly _not_ to be alone right now. He wants to be somewhere safe, surrounded by people who love him. He wants to be somewhere that gives him permission to love himself.

His loneliness, it's a physical pain. A vice is gripping his chest, constricting his lungs and his heart. It hurts so much, being alone here. Emptiness is burning him from the inside out.

He wants his mama to wrap her arms around him, and hold him close, rocking him back and forth. He wants to hear her whisper, I love you, no louder than a breath.

Oh, God, he wants to call him mother so badly.

He reaches into his pocket and fishes out his phone. Deftly, he enters the code to unlock it. He presses the address book function, and scrolls through the numbers. His thumb hovers over the entry for _Mom_, but he can't bring himself to press it.

He cannot call his mother now. It might be early morning in Lima, but she is half way through her day in France. He will worry her if he calls her like this, and, as much as he needs his mother, the need to protect her from his darkness fills every fiber of his being. He doesn't know what would be worse: his mother picking up and having to lie to her, or her not picking up at all.

So, he lays, curled up and paralyzed by indecision. The soreness in his body from last night is nothing compared to the ache in his heart. He doesn't know where the emotion has come from. He doesn't know how to banish it. He wishes, more than anything, to have control of the void he is staring into.


	46. Chapter 46

_A/N: So, I'm posting tonight because I've had this bumping around for a while. Unfortunately, I have an exam in the chemistry course which makes organic chemistry (the class that fells half the premeds in most years) look like cake on Wednesday, so I will be studying tomorrow night. Also... if you're bored, look up the similarities between the assassination of JFK and Abraham Lincoln some time. Kind of cool._

He rides a diabetic roller coaster for the next week. His blood sugars are as predictable and explainable as springtime in Ohio, which follows the adage, "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes." He spikes up to beyond levels the meter can read, and falls just as quickly into the clutches of hypoglycemia.

He finds himself slipping in other areas, too.

His schoolwork takes just a touch more effort. He simply cannot muster the energy to _care_ about Latin verbs, so on Thursday, he skips the class yet again. He is a touch confused by the integration constant, although a touch confused for him seems normal for most of his calculus classmates. One thing he will say for France is that he was taught math well. He may have also mixed up a few details about the Kennedy and Lincoln assassinations, but his history teaching is a conspiracy theorist anyway.

His half of the room descends into a state of chaos. Nick keeps looking at his growing pile of dirty laundry, and repeating, "DUDE!" He just can't be bothered, though.

He is irritable all the time. He has to force himself not to snap at the Warblers, especially the younger and clumsier ones, as they trip over their own feet in practice. Regionals is less than two weeks away, and the Warblers need to take first. He doesn't know how he will stand it if Brabra, Lady Face and their troop of misfit toys beat them out. He comes up with a plan to keep Barbra out of competition.

He also stops taking the little blue tablet in the morning. He isn't complying anywhere, why should this one matter? He barely feels it as his body changes. He ignores his developing dependence on caffeine. He pretends he doesn't feel the times when his brain and his body just shudder and skip. He doesn't allow himself to think about the image that sits in the back of his mind all the time, now: a razor blade cutting the delicate flesh on the inside of his forearm.

He starts staying up late, messing with Photoshop on one of the Dalton computers. Finn Hudson really shouldn't post so many pictures of himself in awkward positions, and Dalton really should improve their firewall.

He lets the Rollercoaster, and the irritability and his new sleeping patterns isolate him. He gives up on trying to be nice to anyone, and tries to keep them at arm's length. It doesn't matter; he disgusts them.

If only he knew that Nick, Jeff, David and Trent keep meeting in Trent's purple-paisley appointed suite to discuss him.

"I hate watching him self destruct," Jeff complains.

David nods in agreement. "Short of Wes Montgomery, though, I don't know of anyone who could stage an intervention. He's out of control."


	47. Chapter 47

_A/N: I've re-written this about three times… still not sure how I feel about it. Seb is off his antidepressants, which might also have a mild antipsychotic effect. There are a few triggers here, so please be mindful. If this brings up stuff for you, I'm always here if you need to talk… please message me. _

His body shudders for a second. It's the feeling he imagines light bulbs feel when they flicker: like time is frozen, just for a second, or like they're frozen and the universe keeps spinning without them. And, even though he's flirting with oblivion, the idea of being a frozen observer, conscious of the movement of things but unable to interact with them scares him.

He twists the lock behind him with a satisfying click, and sinks down to the floor. His breath catches in his throat, and he feels the tears prick at his eyes again. Oh God, oh God, oh God. What has he done?

It started as a joke, a way to amuse himself during the long, dark hours when he couldn't sleep. His mind wouldn't shut up.

Shut up. Shut up. SHUT UP. Why do Nick and Jeff have to be so loud? How can they be laughing? The world is coming down around them all.

Projects keep him quiet. Computers, like most things except languages and liking himself, come easily. It was a few hours distraction. A joke to amuse himself. Until he took it too far. Too far. TOO FAR.

The heady scent of coffee. That manila envelope with the pink star. The twin looks of horror on Barbra and Hummel's faces. It almost made him want to snatch the envelope out of their hands, and run back to his car.

He held his ground, though. He played the game. He was committed, he had to do it. He will have to follow through.

Follow through. He has no follow through. His father yells at him all the time. He does not stick to his guns, stick to his goals.

His father will be angry if he finds out about this. His father will be angry when he finds out about the salty slushie. His father is angry. His father is disappointed. His father knows he's a screw up.

Screw up. Screw up. Screw up.

His body pauses again as he rocks. God, he wants to turn back time. He want to take everything back. He wants to disappear.

He could… kill himself. It would be easy. Life is fragile, his more than most. A razor blade could slip down the veins of his wrist. One of his father's hand guns could end up in his mouth. A reservoir delivered all at once by accident, so much on board that no one can stop the plummet.

It's tempting, but he can't. If he dies, he can't win regionals. And, he wants to win.

Because, if he wins, it will mean that he's not failing. It will mean that what he's done was justified. If he wins, his father will love him. If he wins, he knows he is still in control.


	48. Chapter 48

_A/N: Guess who finished the last full course of her master's degree today? Also... thank you for all your reviews! When I open my email and its someone commenting, I just get so excited. Thank you._

He starts out Tuesday okay. He's not exactly a morning person, especially if he's on a tilt, but the day starts well. The shower is amazingly warm when he turns it on; he doesn't have to wait for the hot water to make its way across the school and up to his bathroom. He turns it up to almost scalding and stands under the spray until every inch of him is clean.

He dresses, musses his hair, texts his father. He almost skips down to breakfast.

Oh God, they have BACON! And hash browns. And Bacon. And English muffins. And BACON. He puts his favorite foods on his plate, takes a mug of coffee and finds a seat alone. He is pleasantly surprised when David joins him, nursing his own mug. The other Warbler raises his eyebrow. "You must FUCKING LOVE bacon," David comments.

It's strange to have friends who are nerds, too. The Internet was his anonymous safe haven when he was younger. He still feels safe there, although it's becoming more dangerous, he supposes.

He makes it to calculus before the teacher, a first in a week. He is clean, he is full of delicious food and has enough caffeine that even Simpson's Rule starts to make sense.

The upward trajectory doesn't last long, though. He gets back his Latin test. He bombed it. It shakes him. No matter how good he thinks he might be, his life likes to remind him that he's a failure.

Normally, he could recover from the blow, but it slides him backwards. He forgets his good morning, and gets distracted by other things. His stomach turns into an aching leaden ball, the bacon threatening to come back up as his gut squeezes.

He skips lunch, except for a bottle of water and a package of peanut butter crackers. He's meeting the freshmen Warbler, John, to once again go over dance moves. He swears Johnny could trip over thin air. But, John has perfect pitch. So, he stays and the people around him wear steal-toed boots.

He sitting on the piano bench nursing a stepped-upon baby toe when Andrew saunters in. He has been avoiding the counter-tenor since their odd meal after his return from the hospital. Andrew watches them block out the steps again, chanting the words. The younger boy waits for a minute, and then takes over the dance lesson. John has the blocking down, and is even managing to sing well he blocks.

He feels defeated. He can't even teach a freshman how to dance. The niggling ball of failure that has replaced his digestive system grows tighter and harder. Angry thoughts race through his head.

He goes to American History, and promptly puts his foot in his mouth. He sits in the rest of the class. His words ring in his ears, a constant soundtrack of shame.

How can he ever be good enough if he can't control himself?


	49. Chapter 49

_A/N: One of the first safety rules with pumps is not to prime while connected (Except for one, tiny, approved prime ). Basically, the only way insulin should be delivered is through the "bolus" function, which has several safety catches._

He's thirsty and tired when he finally gets through his classes. He climbs the stairs, slowly. He is out of breath when he reaches the top. He wonders, and reaches into his pocket, only to find it empty. If he were not in the hallway, he might have stuck two fingers under his shirt and felt for the complete little plastic dome on his hip.

He locks the door behind him, and goes to laundry pile. When he pulls out his pajama pants, his pump is clipped to the belt and they stink with insulin. He rips the pump off, and reconnects the tubing before going and testing his blood sugar.

The meter greets him. "HI"

He's about to give himself a dose, but he sees his phone blinking instead. "Two Missed Calls. Two new messages." He checks them. Both his mother and his father have called in an eight-hour period, while he was in class.

His heart beat quickens, and he picks up the two messages.

His father calls to let him know there is a giant box of airheads waiting for him at the front desk.

His mother calls to say that she loves him very much, but that she can't make it to the US during his spring break. He can hear the sadness in her voice, as she quietly says, "I'm sorry, Bastian."

He wants to cry. His mother doesn't even have a week to come see him.

Instead, he bites the inside of his lip and goes downstairs to retrieve his package from the rector.

He lies to the older man, telling him that everything is fine, he's staying out of trouble, he's busy with the Warblers.

He goes back upstairs, and re-locks the heavy hardwood door. He feels… empty. Almost as though he is floating outside himself and needs to anchor himself.

Before he knows what he is doing, he uses a manicured nail to rip through the plastic wrapping and get access to the candy.

He eats one of the chewy, sugary bars.

Then another.

And another.

His bed is littered with wrappers, and he's about to spew in Technicolor. He goes into the bathroom, and finds his manual toothbrush. He tickles the roof of his mouth and the back of his throat until the lurid green, unnatural red, and vibrant blue that once occupied his stomach fill the water. The good thing about vomiting up candy is that it tastes pretty good the second time around.

He's tired, and empty. He wants to sleep. When he wakes up, the day will have been a bad dream. He won't have bombed Latin, or said something stupid in history. But, most importantly, his Mother will love him.

His rational side says he needs to bolus, but he'll be over his total daily dose if he does.

So, he untwists the cartridge from his pump and connects the plunger. He holds the syringe away from his body, and lets the liquid flow through.

It burns a little as he injects himself, but he doesn't care. He watches as 20… 40… 60… 80… 1 ml courses through the tubing. Then, he disconnects and re-primes his pump.

He lies, and lets his exhaustion take control.

_A/N 2: So, I'm writing this in a separate document and adding this retroactively to the story. In my mind, I still haven't violated my 600 word rule, so it's okay. But, I think this chapter needs some explanation. _

_Insulin Pump 101_

_ The pump is this little plastic box somewhere around the size of an iPod. (Common complaint from pump users: No, it's not my MP3 player/Cell phone/Pager/Thing to call a TARDIS!). Sebastian uses one, which, like most pumps, holds a reservoir of insulin connected to a relatively long, thin tube that connects to a site at his body. _

_Here's a picture:_

_ http:/www. /v/vspfiles/templates/TF0212/images/images_files/insulin%20pump .jpg  
><em>_(please remove the spaces)_

_You can't see it, but the tubing is actually between 1 and 3' long (30 – 100 cm), depending on the preference of the user. The insulin gets kept in this short, fat, syringe, which usually holds holds ~3 ml or 300 U. Based on Sebastian's age/size/time as a diabetic/activity level, I'm estimating that his total daily dose (all insulin taken over 24 hours) should be about 50 – 75U. He takes 100, and of the 100, he needs probably between 20U and 40U… meaning he has just taken a full day's dose in 15 minutes. Or, more than enough to cause his blood sugar to drop and cause him to seize/die._


	50. Chapter 50

_A/N: I've added a note to the last chapter for anyone confused about what Seb has done. Since its retroactive, it doesn't count against the world limit. I don't really know where this came from, except maybe that last night, one of the worst storm systems of the year blew through town and now, there are branches drying in the warm sun under blue skies._

Nick, Trent, Jeff and David arrive at Warbler's practice a bit out of breath. The four friends have been trailing Sebastian for the past week, and it's exhausting. Even with four of them taking rotating shifts, it's nearly impossible to keep with the tall boy's schedule of classes, singing, exercising, homework, being snarky, reading, and going to the Lima Bean for coffee.

They've only lost him twice before: last Sunday morning when he slipped for a run while Nick was at church, and the day Sebastian threatened Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel at the Lima Bean. Of course, after that incident, they got a flurry of texts from Kurt, Blaine, Rachel, the scary Latina, Satana, and two individuals called "Frankenteen" and "Puckasaurus".

Trent skates into the room last, literally sliding across the polished wooden floor with skill perfected over the last year at Dalton. When he sees his three partners in crime, but the absence of Sebastian, his eyes widen into a panicked stare.

Nick approaches Thad at the bench as John tries to lead the group in local warm ups. "I'm going to find Sebastian," he says, quietly. Thad is no Wes Montgomery; he doesn't know the particular of everyone's lives, but he knows there is _something _going on with Sebastian, lately. So, he lets Nick go running out of the room. Thad is nostalgic for last year when the biggest problem among the Warblers was Kurt and Blaine's budding romance and Wes' growing co-dependence on his gavel.

Nick slowly unlocks the door of the room he shares with Sebastian. Dalton is a safe place, and its rare that the door is locked, unless one of them is engaged in something … indelicate. Nick prays that he walks in on Sebastian pants-less.

Instead, when the door swings open, he sees his roommate sitting silently on his bed surrounded by the confetti made from dozens of multi-colored Mylar packages. Sebastian holds the syringe from his pump away from his body, so that the long of white tubing stands in stark relief to the wooden paneling along the wall. His thumb depresses the plunger, and Nick has no doubt that it is still connected to his body. His shoulders are heaving slowly, and Nick knows that if Sebastian were to turn, his cheeks would be covered in tears.

Nick feels sick. His guts fall into his shoes. He feels numbs. It would have been better if he had walked in on Sebastian masturbating.

He watches, silently and numbly, as Seb goes through the motions of putting his pump back together. The tall boy curls into the fetal position, then, as his fingers wrap around the pump and bring it to his cheek. His shoulders silently heave.

The motion somehow jettisons Nick from his paralysis. Silently, so as not to disturb his distraught roommate, he slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him. He texts an SOS to Trent, David, Jeff and Thad. Then, fingers shaking, he presses three numbers he's known since childhood but never used before: 911.


	51. Chapter 51

_A/N: So, I have a potty mouth when I'm angry. But, there have been studies that show that swearing actually releases endorphins. Arguably, in this state, Seb needs some endorphins. _

He is numb. He would say he feels, but how can you feel numb? Isn't numb the opposite of feeling.

He just wants to sleep. Bed is good. A little itchy and crinkly, but good. He is safe in bed.

Why the fuck is Nick shaking him and making him sit up and talk?

Why in hell has Trent showed up with that blasted plastic bear and cheese crackers? He fucking hates peanut butter crackers, but the yellow fake cheese makes him want to vomit.

Why is Jeff sitting here, holding an entire box of popsicles, trying to tempt him to eat?

He finally takes a popsicle, to appease Jeff. He's thirsty and his throat burns from vomiting. The ketones from spending his day disconnected still mean a little extra acid in his stomach.

He won't talk to them, though.

He wants his mama.

His body shudders with the force of emotion. His face crumples. The tears are not and wet and fast.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, if such a being exists, he wants his Mama.

But… she can't come. She has work. And, he has to be strong.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and twitches it off violently. Damn it! He doesn't want to be touched. He doesn't want to be comforted. He doesn't deserve comfort. He deserves to wallow in his pain.

The bare wooden stick in his hand has magically transformed into another whole popsicle. He puts it in his mouth. Because.

His body starts to tremble as he eats.

When he finishes, he gets up, and hurriedly wipes his tears from his face. He goes to the bathroom, and shakily washes himself. Nick follows him, standing in the open doorway.

He balls his hands into fists, nails digging into his palms and waits for the shaking to stop.

He wants to test his blood sugar, but he's afraid to do it in front of the others. Last time he went low, Trent was angry, frightened, disgusted.

If they see the blood, they will be repulsed.

He can't go back to bed. David is collecting the candy wrapers, trying to hide his look of … interest? Hunger? Let David eat the stupid things, if he wants.

Fuck! He can't read people when he feels like this.

He washes his mouth with water, and swallows. Fuck, he's thirsty. He has to pee. He glares at Nick, who hasn't moved from the doorway and starts unzipping his trousers.

He's standing there, midstream with the bathroom door wide open when the EMTs burst into the room, the old, fuddy rector hot on their heels.

He steels himself, and puts on his most charming smile. He is the fucking master of control.


	52. Chapter 52

He sees the blue jackets, and somehow, the perceived threat brings clarity. He focuses against the pressure of exhaustion, the screaming haze in his head, and the rush of adrenaline filling his veins.

He considers his options. He can bolt: there are plenty of good hiding places on campus where no one will look for him or notice him. Or, his car keys are by his bed. He could swipe them and go on the lam. He can fight… physically. He's strong, although he strongly suspects David and Jeff are both members of the fight club. And, the male paramedic looks hefty, too. He dismisses they both, quickly. Neither will solve his problem.

He has one option left to escape. He feels like the storybook hero who has been beaten and injured, only to go off to face another battle armed only with his whit, charm, and a few plucky sidekicks and an arsenal of awesome magical spells. Except that his sidekicks have betrayed him and he has no awesome magical arsenal. He will have to rely on his charm, instead.

He zips up his pants and washes his hands before plastering a magnanimous smile across his face. He cannot control his eyes, though. They belong to a caged animal. He is single minded in his determination to get rid of these people.

"Hello," he greets the EMTs, his voice steady despite his pounding chest and the secret shaking in his feet and knees. "How can I help you?"

The emergency personal look baffled for a minute. "We got a call that there was a diabetic emergency," the male EMT says. His short, curly dark hair sticks out wildly from underneath his baseball cap.

He shoots a look of pure venom at Nick. "Everything here is fine," he says, emulating his father with every fiber of his being. It's almost like a Jedi mind trick. This is not the diabetic you're looking for.

"Why don't we examine you, anyway?" The woman asks. She's in charge completely, even though she can't be much more that 22. She has a round face and long hair drawn back in a pony tail. "I'm Lara," she offers. "And this is my partner, Bryan. What's your name?"

"Sebastian," he offers. "And that's Nick, David, Trent, and Jeff is eating the Popsicle." Each of the boys acknowledges the pair in dark jackets. Jeff salutes them with his frozen treat, which promptly falls off the stick. Nick glares as the lurid blue ball of ice falls on his rug.

"Are you diabetic, Sebastian?" Bryan asks. He nods in acknowledgement.

"Would you mind testing your blood sugar for us?"

He smiles. What would his father do? "Of course," he says graciously. Anything to get free. He moves through the motions quickly, noting Jeff's wince at the sight of his blood. The meter promptly responds: 82.

He smiles and shows them the number. "Everything is fine," he says. He waits for them to leave, so he can sink onto his bed. He feels his leg trembling, and perhaps more concerning, he feels the fog of a panic attack floating in like dark storm clouds on the horizon. When it gets here, he needs to be alone.

He's not loosing the vestiges of control he has over his life.


	53. Chapter 53

__A/N: I don't know what has gotten into me lately, other than maybe that this is an apology to my muse for the semester. He's kind of an artsy-fartsy guy, and I think I'm overwhelming him with SCIENCE!__

He waits for the paramedics to leave. He is fine; he does not need them. In fact, he needs so desperately for them to leave. He is on the verge of falling apart. He can feel the blurring of his periphery vision that starts the anxiety attack.

His patience is wearing thin. He is wearing thin. It is a game of Russian Roulette, and he is both the pistol and player. He doesn't know what hammer strike will set off the dry powder, and cause him to explode. All he can do is choose when to pull the trigger and play the bullet will pass him this time.

Trent has taken Sebastian's rolling leather desk chair. Nick paces. Jeff and his popsicles are on Nick's quilt. David is hiding in the bathroom.

He crosses the room, restlessly, and sits carefully into Nick's wooden desk chair. His body wants so badly to sprawl, but he needs to project an image of calm self-assurance. Even so, he cannot help letting his leg bounce up and down. He doesn't know if it's from stress… or the thing he will not let himself think about. His foot is numb as it bounces.

Click. A trigger pulled. Empty chamber.

The female EMT stands next to him. "We have to get some vitals," she says as she uncoils a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope.

He catches a look of relief pass across Nick and Trent's faces as the woman wraps the black cuff around his white shirtsleeve and the man asks questions.

He gives his medical history quickly and concisely. He names his allergies, his diagnose, his medications and doses with quick, detached efficiency. The woman checks his eyes and ears. Then, she checks his mental acuity, asking him to recite math facts. Someone had once told him that people with low blood sugar couldn't do math problems. His father had drilled his times tables into his head. He answers quickly, without thinking.

He signs the form the EMTs shove at him, refusing treatment and promising his father will pay the insurance. He watches them as they pack up their medical equipment. He waits until the paramedics leave, and then smiles at Nick and the others.

He feels himself stretching thin. His finger squeezes the springy trigger. "I'm fine," he observes, "The paramedics said so."

Nick snorts. "If you're fine, than you can come down to Warbler's practice with us,"

His lips are wrapped around the familiar shape, although its cold and hard.

"Fine," he says. The hammer cocks back.

He stands, or he tries to. There is a flash of bright white, then black. The world spins out of control. He hears a scream as his head explodes. All the stresses take control of his system.


	54. Chapter 54

_A/N: Glucagon is like anti-insulin. It causes the liver to release stored glucose, which brings up blood sugar quickly. In diabetics, glucagon signaling is abnormal, although the body sometimes plays tricks like an adrenal dump. Glucagon comes as a powder that gets mixed with water and injected into muscle. The only major side effect is vomiting. But, it can only be used on an unconscious or semi-conscious patient, because the liver takes about 24 hours to re-build its supply of glucose. And, yeah,… I'm on a spree._

Trent leaps from his perch in a fit of athleticism, which David decides the Warblers may need to exploit later. He catches Sebastian's head before the unconscious boy hits the floor. Jeff, still chewing a popsicle stick, helps Trent roll their friend onto his side, with his head cradled against his arm.

"David, Honey!" Trent barks, but the former Wabler council membrane looks blank.

He feels cold, watching Sebastian fall. This is no time for terms of endearment! David doesn't do well with medical emergencies or blood. Besides, they've had this talk before and David is 99% committed to Katherine. And, that other 1% he is reserving for Robert Downey Jr. or Matt Damon, whoever offers first.

The realization dawns on him, and he throws Trent the sticky bear. Jeff checks Sebastian's vitals as Trent coats his finger is the stuff, and for the third time in as many weeks, sticks the sticky digit into Sebastian's mouth.

"David, open his top drawer," the Sassy Warbler orders his bewildered brother. "Is there a slim, red plastic case in there?"

David mechanically opens the small drawer, and examines the contents. There are pill bottles, a few vials, a syringe or two, and a stack of small plastic strips that look like them might contain … dried blood. It is all David can do to keep from pulling his hand out. But, he doesn't see any red plastic case. He shakes his head.

"Go check the bathroom," Trent orders, pouring more honey into the unconscious Sebastian.

Meanwhile, Nick is sprinting out the door, yelling for the paramedics. He reaches the pair just as the elevator arrives.

Nick's voice is an octave higher than his normal as he announces, "He collapsed!"

The paramedics turn from the elevator, guiding their gurney, and follow Nick. He isn't sure how they can be so calm, cool and collected. His heart is beating a rapid tattoo in his chest. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.

"Does he have a glucagon kit, anywhere?" The man, Bryan, asks. Trent shakes his head as David emerges triumphant from the bathroom clutching the thin red box. A look of relief passes between the EMTs. David hands it over, and collapses onto the bed, his knees trembling.

They break the prescription seal, and fiddle with syringe and vial within. Trent looks at Jeff. He seems to have despaired of David. "Go get a trash can," He says. "I'll eat a tablespoon of vegemite if he doesn't hurl." The blond grins sadistically as he gets the trashcan. He has been trying to get Trent to try is national food for a while.

Once the paramedics get the needle into Sebastian's perfectly sculpted butt cheek, Trent fears he'll have to face the dreaded spread. Then, the tall boy begins spewing like Mount Vesuvius in the hay-day of Pompeii.

The danger subsides only after Trent's blazer is covered in vomit. He shucks it off, and helps the paramedics load a semi-conscious, cursing Sebastian onto the stretcher.

He thanks whichever being is in control that there was glucagon there.


	55. Chapter 55

He is riding a tilt-a-whirl and he is going to be sick. He dislikes roller coasters, but more than anything, he hates rides that spin. Someone had dared him once, though, questioning his manhood. So, he is spun and tilted, and grinds his fingernails into his palms.

He thinks that maybe if he opens his eyes, he will be less sick.

His eye lids are heavy, but he opens them slowly. Everything is bright, almost sparkling. He sees stars.

Hearts, stars, horseshoes, clover, and blue moon, pots of golden rainbows and his red balloons. Okay… maybe just stars. And sparkles.

He vomits up a riot of colors that belong in a Disney movie. It makes him feel better, though.

And, it brings him back to the present. Trent is holding his head, Jeff is holding Nick's paper mache trash can, and both are covered in the brightly colored spew. David is conspicuously absent, and Nick is leaning against the open bathroom door, looking concerned.

The paramedics are leaning over him. "Sebastian, how are you feeling?" The female one asks.

"F – f – fine," he manages to get out. His whole body is shivering. But, he will be damned if anyone will see him this way. He rolls onto his back and sits up slowly. His arms tremble as he sits up.

Jeff hops up, and grabs one of his half-melted popsicles, and hands it to him. Even though he's angry, he accepts it. He's not sure if he wants one or not, because it is green. Sometimes, green is lime, which is good. Sometimes green is sour apple, which is significantly less so.

He likes real flavors, not luridly articial ones. Except, sometimes. Now is sometimes.

The paramedics help him onto the gurney. They are going take him away. They are going to make him go to the hospital. They are going to make him see more people. More people he doesn't know. More people he has to impress.

He's so tired. He's been through an earthquake, and now, this is the tidal wave coming to get him.

It is all he can do not to cling to high ground for safety as the paramedics lift him. It takes every ounce of self control he has left, and every scrap of dignity he has not to cling to the bed post.

Almost everything he had is destroyed; let him keep the few rags of his reputation.

The paramedics strap him down, a fire breaking out among the crumbling buildings. It's too much. He starts swearing at them, in English, American, Aussie, Latin, Spanish, and French. He flings every curse he knows at the paramedics. He flings them at Nick, at Jeff, at David, at Trent. He screams at his father, his mother, his teachers and doctors.

But, mostly, he says them to himself.

The paramedics wheel him through the hall, where he sees heads poking out of doorways. He knows what they are thinking: the freak is being taken away.

He knows, deep in his heart, that's what he is: a freak. That's all he'll every be. He was never in control of his life; this is his destiny.


	56. Chapter 56

He is docile. He keeps his eyes straight ahead, and refuses to acknowledge anyone. Silent, accusatory tears flow down his cheeks. His hands shake.

He has tried everything.

Swearing did not work. They pushed him through the halls of Dalton Academy as though he were just another patient.

Struggling did not work. The restraints are tight to keep him from moving, but not so tight to hurt him. They hold firm as the male EMT tightens the tourniquet around his arm and puts in the IV lines. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood.

Sarcasm did not work. He wonders if the paramedics and nurses are wearing ear plugs or were just born without senses of humor.

Finally, he feels enough like himself to try for haughty arrogance. He knows if he tried it first, he wouldn't be in this mess. But, the façade has crumbled.

He is tied to the hospital bed, an IV in each arm. Cold glucose in his right. Cold saline in his left. The saline burns like acid. It is a cold fire, eating through every internal organ until he is just an empty bag of skin. He is defeated. He is naked. No, he is more than naked. He has been stripped bare. The flesh has been picked from his bones by vultures, and they have been thrown in the fire.

Jeff and Nick sit as silent sentries by his bedside. They have not left his side, despite everything he has done.

The walked through the halls with him as he screamed and cursed and howled.

They held his shoulders as the female EMT put the second line in. "Nick, can I hold your hand?" The words echo silently between them.

They look at each other as he lashes out, his words poisonous. He was like this once before, with Santana Lopez.

They recognize him, finally, in the coolly arrogant young man. But, Nick and Jeff know that the cool, dispassionate arrogance is a lie. They know that underneath, he is just a frightened, scared little boy. Just like they are.

They don't know what to do with the silent, blank, shell of their friend. So, they wait with him.

The nurse comes in and changes his bag of IV glucose. She slides the radioreciever from the constant glucose monitor from his hand, and checks his levels. A look of worry crosses her face. The trend line, tracing the patient's history and suggesting a prognosis holds steady. But, it is steady at 47.

His hypoglycemia does not register, anymore. He has exhausted his glucose reserves. The only thing that keeps him from slipping back into unconsciousness are the IVs pumping sugar back into his blood as fast as his cells absorb it.

The nurse goes to find the doctor, where she and Mr. Smythe stand talking. She does not know what to do with the silent, shaking boy.

Suddenly, a keening fills the emergency department. It rises and falls with a constant pattern. It is lower and louder than a siren. It is the sound of despair.

It startles the three adults outside the boy's room from their discussions of another IV bag and a psych consult.

It startles the three boys within. Nick is filled with dispassionate cold, while Jeff's chest aches for his baby sister, far away.

The boy in the bed whimpers four words, which fall into strange concert with the cries.

"Mamam, Daddy, Somebody, Please."

"My Son. My Son. Oh God. My Son."

The words are controlled by raw emotion.


	57. Chapter 57

_A/N: I've had a few comments, so I'll just put it out there. This Tuesday is the day, in my head cannon, where Karofsky attempts suicide. So, it is Karofsky's father who is crying as _his _child is carried in, mostly dead. _

He sits at edge of the tallest tower in the kingdom. He has been betrayed by his fellows. He will die soon. He has one chance for escape, for intercession, will not come plead his case. His mother loves him, but not as much as she loves her estate.

They have pinioned his arms, putting a stake through each elbow and weighting his wrists down. He sits with his back against the cold stone wall, awaiting what will happen.

He is proud. He refuses to look at the two traitors, who sit keeping guard. They are warm, dressed in cloaks and fine trousers. He has been stripped to his tunic and stocking feet. He cannot look at them. The dark haired one was his best friend, named godfather to his son. The blond was his lover, once. Until he betrayed him.

The wind buffets him, howling constantly. He shakes against its mightier force. It sounds like a man who has had his heart ripped out.

When no one is listening, when the sentries go away to the bathroom or to eat, or what ever they do, he cannot help himself. He cries out. He cries for his mother, and her God. He cries for his father. He cries for someone to free him.

The guards bring a witch over to torment him further. She takes a hammer and pounds the spike further into her arm.

The witch is asking him a question. What is his name?

Names have power. He will not give her power.

Does he smoke?

He likes his meat boiled.

And, he knows he will not die in a fire. He has been shot before, shot with arrows and left for dead. But, arrows would not kill him.

He will be pressed to death.

And, he is sure the witch is here to bring him to his sentence.

She leans in to touch him, and he twists away.

"No!" He cries, twisting in her grip. "No!"

She has worked her magic, though. Her touch has magical powers. It fells him in a single blow.

The world explodes into a riot of colors and sounds and darkness.

The seizure takes control of his body and mind.


	58. Chapter 58

_A/N: I don't know where this chapter came from. This story has taken on a life of its own, and I'm surprised. I'm also crying a little as I write this. This is again dedicated to my dad._

John Symthe leans against the cold glass wall of the hospital room and scrubs his hands over his face. He is in his shirt-sleeves, his tie loosened, and his hair is standing on end. He wants more than anything to go inside the room. He wants to kiss his little boy and make everything better. But, no kiss can make this better.

"I need him to tell me the truth," The stern, young female doctor told him. "And, it's a rare sixteen-year-old who will tell me the truth with their parents in the room."

He wonders when he became someone with whom his son could not be honest.

When he held the beautiful, squirming, wrinkled red bundle of his blankets in his arm on a day that he remembers as one of the happiest in his life, he promised himself that he would always be there for Sebastian. He would not be the man his father was.

He remembers when Sebastian thought he was wonderful. The four-year-old, his blond hair sticking up in all directions in his triceratops pajamas would worm his way into bed at three in the morning because he'd had a nightmare. John would try to carry him back to bed, but the child would whimper, "You're the only person who can protect me from the monsters, daddy. Let me sleep with you, tonight." And, even though John hadn't slept in a week, and he knows his four year old needs to learn to sleep by himself, he lets the child curl up. He promises himself that tomorrow, he will find a way to get his son to sleep in his own bed.

He remembers the hurt, terrified look in the sunken eyes of a skeletal eight-year-old and telling him that even though he's so thirsty, his father can't bring him water, or even ice.

And, he remembers that frantic phone call that came at 3:30 in the morning. He had been out drinking, and was still warm and flushed with alcohol. "John!" the frantic voice, slightly accented voice on the phone says when he picks up groggily, "It's Sebastian."

His mind raced through all the possibilities of what could be wrong. Had his son been hit by a car? Broken his arm playing sports? Had another seizure?

"John … Sebastian, he, he tried to kill himself." His ex-wife's voice fills the phone. His mind races, and she tells him, "He's resting. But… he's not okay."

He remembers the trip to France to collect the withdrawn, silent, too skinny fifteen year old. He remembers the rounds of therapists. The medications. The discussion of therapies. The nights of locking away the kitchen knives, the pills. His heart breaking as his little boy cried.

He thought Sebastian was getting better. He waited long before sending him to Dalton, with its support and anti-bullying policy. He thought that he was making friends.

Is he just blind? Is he just delusional?

Where did he wrong? When did his little boy loose hope?

How did he fail his father?


	59. Chapter 59

_A/N: Have I mentioned that I'm overwhelmed with the out pouring of love? Have I also mentioned that I pretty much can't get this story out of my head? My muse has taken it and decided to run away to… where ever muses go with stories. However, he has yet to tell me what happened to Nick..._

Nick cannot watch anymore. His roommate is jerking and writhing. And, even though Sebastian be an ass sometimes, damn it, he's the Warbler's ass. He's a brother, and they love him for all his eccentricities.

Nick cannot loose another brother.

He brushes past the medical personal crowding around Sebastian's bed. He goes into the hall to clear his head. He's not abandoning his brother; Sebastian is in the care of doctors, nurses, and Jeff.

He's surprised to find Sebastian's father leaning against the glass wall to the room. Mr. Smythe looks ghastly. His clothes are rumpled, his eyes are red rimmed and his shoulders are shaking silently. Nick wonders how close Sebastian's father is to the breaking point. Nick , himself, is hanging together by a few frayed threads.

"Nick, how did this happen?" Mr. Smythe asks, his voice shaking. "I thought he was getting better… I thought he was all right. … He said he was all right. He told me he was happy here. … That he was happy at Dalton. … He has friends there. You're his friend. … Was he just lying? Was he just playing me for a fool?"

Nick wraps his arms around Sebastian's father, a man he never though would get to a breaking point. Then again, when he met Sebastian last October, he never imagined he'd have seen Sebastian in the emergency room, twice.

Nick needs the hug as much as Mr. Smyth does.

Somehow, physical contact releases the emotions he's been suppressing. He's angry at Sebastian. How could he be so fucking selfish? How could he do this to everyone? How could he take those drugs? Where does a fourteen year old even get illegal drugs? … He is a fucking asshole! A master manipulator.

He tries to stop the thought, but he wonders if Sebastian is playing puppet master, controlling the strings.


	60. Chapter 60

_A/N: I am told Tim Tams are *AMAZING* Australian biscuits (cookies?)_

Fireworks explode in his head, and the world spins back into blurry focus. Haloed people lean over him. Blurry angels.

"Sebastian?"

He jerks at the sound of his name. His whole body hurts, and he is so tired. The fuzzy, glowing woman in the white coat bends over him with a stethoscope. He tries to focus.

"Open your mouth."

He obeys. Someone squirts something slimy and white into his mouth. He swallows reflexively. It's gel-like, a familiar texture, but not a familiar flavor. This slime is sweet… and orange flavored.

He cannot move. He tries to wiggle his finger. Oh. His fingers move. Okay… he can move his fingers. Everything is okay.

He isn't sure where he is. He is surrounded by bright lights and strangers who glow. He does not know anyone around him. …He doesn't know any dead people.

Maybe he's in heaven.

Or Hell.

Or Purgatory.

He isn't a good person, so he's going to hell. But, he's not that bad… so probably purgatory.

He's not sure he believes in purgatory. Can you exist in a place you don't believe in?

A boy with white blond hair and a white t-shirt makes his way over. The glow has faded to dancing starts, but he's still very bright. Angelically bright.

He looks familiar. … He is … Jeff.

Jeff. Jeff has beaten him at Euchre. … Jeff, who yells at Andrew for blasting music on his stereo, but has been known to play "Party in the USA" so loudly the windows shook … Jeff, who once tried to explain the difference between American and Aussie slang and ended up confusing everyone in the room. ... Jeff, who is really good about sharing his Tim Tams, even though its clear he wants hoard them. You can tell by the way he twitches whenever anyone takes more than one and then shoves it in their mouth.

Jeff who is probably not in Heaven. … So, he probably isn't either. However, he's convinced Jeff is an angel as he presses a large white Styrofoam cup of soda into his shaking hands.

Even with the straw, he manages to spill some Sprint on his already soiled hospital gown. Jeff takes the cup, and holds it for him.

Some part of him wonders if Jeff is here, where are his parents? Shouldn't they be here when he wakes up, like they always are? Where is his dad? Where is his Maman? Why is he alone?

"Where's my dad?" He asks Jeff, his voice shaking like his hands.

There is a flurry of activity, and his father comes in. John Smythe hugs his son, careful of the IVs.

He feels safe, protected, at peace for the first time in a long time. They sit together for an eternity, until someone clears their throat.

His father takes the white cup from Jeff, and holds his son as he drinks. When he finishes, he looks down. For the first time in what seems like forever, his tremors are under control.


	61. Chapter 61

_A/N: HOLY COW! We are at chapter 61, and 200 reviews. I never thought I'd get here. THANK YOU TO EVERYONE! It's amazing._

He just wants to go to sleep. Is it so much to ask that he close his eyes and oblivion overtake him for a little bit?

The young doctor looks between the boy and his father. "Mr Smythe, I need to ask you to leave while I examine Sebastian," she said, hoping that he would remember their conversation about honestly.

"No." He was firm. He wasn't sure where the word had come from, but he wanted his father there. He wanted Jeff and Nick there. Hell, he wanted Trent and David and Thad. At this point, he would settle for any familiar face, even Hummel or Barbra. He might draw the line at Satana, though.

His father stands at the head of the cot, and puts his hand protectively on his son's shoulder.

The doctor shrugs, and they go through the preliminaries as she examines him.

No, he doesn't smoke. The confident pressure on his shoulder is gentle, and reassuring.

Yes, he drinks, maybe once a week. His father blanches a bit. No, he's not a virgin. Yes, he has been sexually active in the last six months, but always with protection. The pressure on his shoulder increases, and his father frowns, but he doesn't say anything.

Yes, he's taking his medications. … Okay, maybe he missed the past few days. But, he normally takes them.

The doctor sighs as she finished pressing on his stomach, and asks one last odd question. "What do you want to eat?"

This was … an accident. He didn't do it on purpose, not entirely. He was high. He had forgotten to put on his pump, and he was HI. And, he was overwhelmed. And Sad. And eating a ton of candy seemed like a good idea. Only, that just made him higher. He doesn't know why he didn't think of just taking a shot with a syringe. He was tired. He wasn't thinking.

His father's hand tightens on his shoulder, and the older man grimaces.

He raises his eyebrows. "I'm not hungry, I just want to sleep," he admits.

"There has to be something," The doctor insists. "Unless you want to spend the next four or six hours eating every form of disgusting medical sugar the hospital offers, you need to pick something."

Jeff offers to go back to Dalton and get Tim-Tams. Nick says he'll run to restaurant he wants and get take out. They both look tired. His father's hand tightens on his shoulder, and his fathers eyes beg him to eat. They beg him not to let his blood sugar fall.

"Could I have a cinnamon roll?" He asks, his voice tired. He remembers how he used to love the huge, yeasty pastries with their decadent icing and sweet filling. They are about a million carbs a piece, hopefully enough to keep him up for a little while. "And then, can I go to sleep?"

The doctor scribbles something on her pad. "We'll get you the cinnamon roll, and admit you. I need you talk to my colleague and then you can go to sleep," she promises.

There is no question of who is in control of this appointment.


	62. Chapter 62

_A/N: Thanks to DifferentChild who figured out that David is a stress baker... and the on-the-fly betaing. I need to stop relying on spell check ... and actually write when awake!_

A cab drops the boys off at Dalton around nine. They walk into the dorm together, in companionable silence. It's a safe sort of silence, although its pregnant with the knowledge that things will need to be said soon.

Nick is emotionally drained. Most people think he's this well of stability, but he's not. And tonight, he just needs to cut loose.

Thad is the first person the boys meet. He eyes them, suspiciously. "At some point, you are going to tell me what happened, tonight," he orders. "But, I think you guys better reassure David and Trent first. They're in the kitchen."

A nervous look passes between the blond and the brunette as the council member saunters off. The kitchen can only mean one thing: David has been baking.

David is the kind of guy who bakes when he is stressed. The more stressful the situation, the more elaborate the confection.

A test usually warrants warm oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies, spiced with cinnamon.

There are cupcakes before the Dalton swim meets, usually decorated impeccably with red and white icing. (Joe, the swim team captain banned navy after the Night of Black Poop.)

When his beloved Fighting Irish loose, David makes bread pudding, and would try his hand at Whiskey sauce if he didn't think he would get caught. For some reason, Trent and Thad always cheer _against _Notre Dame. Unless the boys in blue are playing USC, because the Trojans are just plain evil.

Nick and Jeff are afraid that they will walk into the kitchen to a full wedding cake, all things considered. They knock on the locked kitchen door – another sure sign David is stressed – and wait.

Trent opens the door for them, and the first thing the boys see is a three layer cake, dirty iced, on the sideboard in the corner. A package of fondant sits beside it. The oven door is open and filled with small, white, fluffy shells. A bowl of whipped cream sits on the table in the center of the room, and David is washing and slicing strawberries at the sink.

The bowl of whipped cream is on the table in the center of the room, next to the remains of what used to be a toaster. If David bakes when he's stressed, Trent eats desserts and tries to "fix" small electronics. At least this time David made him unplug the Toaster before taking it apart. Nick isn't sure he could take a burned, shocked Trent.

Jeff grins, and goes to make tea. Nick helps Trent clear the toaster fragments from the table and wash away the breadcrumbs. David removes the meringue like shells from the oven, and assembles them.

Then, the four boys sit down together at the table to talk about purple and pink elephant doing a tap dance by the refrigerator. They _have _to talk about it. But, they help Sebastian do damage control if they keep it among themselves.


	63. Chapter 63

"Oh my God," David bursts out as he sinks into a chair. "Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God."

Trent giggles nervously.

Nick rests his head on the table. It bounces a few times before settling.

Jeff calmly picks up his fork and takes a bite of his dessert. "He's mostly okay," the Aussie says quietly.

Nick raises his head and laughs bitterly. The sound is cold and hard, utterly devoid of mirth. He sounds nothing like his usually philosophical, upbeat self. "Don't sugar coat it, Jeff. He almost died."

"W-w-what?" David stammers, blanching. He nearly chokes on a bite of his pillowy meringue. He likes the thought of mortality almost less than the thought of bodily fluids.

Trent fiddles with his fork, and looks longingly at the toaster. "But… the glucagon. It worked."

"After that," Nick says.

"It was fucking scary," Jeff says quietly. "He was all loopy, and then he just fucking seized."

Trent looks startled. David looks slightly nauseous.

"You want to know the worst part?" Nick asks, looking around the table. "You can't repeat this. You can't tell anyone." They nod in agreement. The pact is sworn. "The whole time, I was angry at him. … And at Kevin. … I'm still fucking angry at him. He didn't fucking have to do this… none of it."

Trent comes around and hugs Nick's shoulders. "I don't think he knows what he's doing," the larger boy says.

"But, what if he does?" Nick insists. "What if he's just playing us all?"

David shakes his head. "I don't think so," he says. "He's an ass, but he's not manipulative. If he lies, he's at least consistent in his lies… he doesn't just say what we want to hear. … Not like Andrew." The other four groan. The freshman is starting to wear on everyone's nerves/

"You're not a bad person, Niko." Jeff reassures him. "I was about ready to kill him myself, when he let the ambos go, and then he fainted."

"I still have it out for him, a little bit," Trent says. "He threw up a rainbow on my white shirt."

"You have to be really fabulous to puke up rainbows!" David bursts out laughing.

"I think there were sparkles," Jeff says, quietly. Sure enough, his t-shirt has a few stray pieces of glitter on it. Whether the glitter is from Sebastian's vomit, or Jeff and Cullum's project on the spread of the common cold is less certain.

"That is SO gay!" Nick chimes in.

It's a long time before the boys can control their laughter.


	64. Chapter 64

_A/N: Happy Mother's Day. If you're interested, there is a companion piece to this where Seb goes to visit him mom in France, called Mother's Love. _

He rallies for the psych eval. The cinnamon roll helped, making him feel full, and vaguely peaceful. He thinks he can manage to lie his way through, and stay out of trouble. His mind is almost clear, exhaustion clouding things more than anything.

The psychologist on call is an older man, and with slicked-back hair. He wears a white muscle under his dress shirt, which has yellow stains under the armpits. The man is too sincere, and tries too hard to connect. He doesn't want to be left alone with this man.

The psychologist makes his father leave the room. Strike one.

It still hurts to move his arms. His fingers are cold and clumsy, and the IVs hurt his arm. But, his father slips the nurse call button into his hand, and whispered, "I'll be right outside."

The man pulls up a chair, and sits near his bed. He can smell the peanut butter on the psychologist's breath. It reminds him of the peanut butter crackers he ate for lunch, and then threw up. It makes him feel nauseated. Strike two.

"So, Sebastian," the man says without any pretense, his perfect white teeth flashing, "Why did you try to kill yourself?"

Strike Three.

He makes himself cold and hard and haughty. He's had years of practice, it shouldn't be hard. "I didn't try to kill myself, today." He says, his voice sharp. "I made a mistake."

He thinks about adding, "If I was trying, I would have succeeded." But, it will only get him in trouble.

The psychologist tries a different tactic. "Where the pills a mistake, too, Sebastian?"

He shrugs, trying to project nonchalant disinterest. "I had a headache. I only meant to take a few. They were Tylenol, not sleeping pills. I wouldn't have died from 5g of Tylenol." It had been lousy luck that he'd gone low and passed out in the bathroom at school, the pill bottle spilling around him. No one had believed him then. No one believes him now.

The truth is that, even though he thinks about it, he doesn't want to kill himself. He is afraid of dying. And, he cannot be a success if he's dead. Sometimes, he flirts with the idea of a break. Not permanent oblivion, just a temporary pause.

The man makes a note in his chart.

They talk for a while longer. He gives all the right answers to all the wrong questions.

Finally, the psychologist packs up his chart and pumps his hand. The man has no regard for the fact that he has two IVs.

He winces, and presses the nurse call button to summon his father, and someone to release him so he can go to the bathroom.

He's surprised when it's Dr. Blake who accompanies his father. He doesn't know a lot about emergency rooms, but he suspects the doctor should be attending other patients. He voices his request, and she checks his monitor. He peaked up to nearly 200, but has been dropping steadily, again. He's not falling so fast as before, and he's at a relatively safe 120.

As she leans over to unhook the IVs from his arms, the blue scrub top rides up, exposing an inch or two of hip and stomach. Someone else might have missed it, but the constellation of white scars is too familiar.

He wonders he's the only diabetic in the room with control issues.


	65. Chapter 65

_A/N: Does it even need to be mentioned that the Mythbusters TV show is property of the Discovery Channel and I don't own it?_

John Smythe leans down to brush his son's hair off his forehead. He looks so young, so vulnerable. . His body is half curled onto his side, and he's looking at an episode of the Mythbusters.

"Dad?" Bastian stirs, lethargically, lifting his head from the pillow and focusing his green eyes on his father.

"Shh," John quiets his son. "I'm going to go to the bathroom and get a cup of coffee. I'll be back in a minute. Don't let them move you upstairs without me."

Bas nods, his slightly unfocused eyes already sliding back toward the explosion Adam Savage is preparing on screen. John hurries out before his son can change his mind. He needs a few minutes to collect himself.

There is a small vending machine for coffee outside the Emergency Department. It promises to dispense all manner of flavored coffee, chocolate, and even broth for a few quarters. A man, about his own age, is leaning against the coffee machine, twisting the wedding ring on his left hand nervously. He looks as tired and frustrated as John feels.

"You alright?" The man asks, quietly. His voice is hoarse.

John shrugs, and wipes his face with his hand. He didn't realize he was crying again, until just now.

"Yes. No. I don't know," He pauses. He is not normally a man who pours out his problems to strangers. But, maybe he recoganizes some kindred parental angst in the other man, because before he can stop himself, the words slip out. "My sixteen year old almost killed himself, today."

He can't believe he just said that.

The man laughs, cold and mirthless. "My seventeen year old tried to hang himself."

"Oh, God." John is thankful Sebastian has never tried something like that. "I'm… I'm so sorry."

The man sighs. "I don't know what to do… David … Dave… he's a good kid. He's just … having a rough time, you know?" John nods. It sounds like Sebastian. Good at heart, but in trouble. "I don't really care … I just want my son to be okay." The man finishes.

John Smythe sighs, the weight of the world in the sound. He tries to put all the things he's feeling into the sound: the sadness that any other parent has to experience the pain and fear of loosing a child; appreciation that he's not alone; disappointment over his son's destructiveness; relief that he didn't have to find his son lying there…

"I'm John," he says, offering his hand and his card. "John Smyth."

"Adam Karofsky," the other man says.

"Bas, my son, I have to go back," John says. "But, if… if you need anything, call me."

Adam nods. "I will."


	66. Chapter 66

_A/N: Diabulemia is an eating disorder where a person skips their insulin dose and/or causes ketones to loose weight. I would argue that Sebastian doesn't have it, since he doesn't induce ketones for weight loss, but its up for debate._

He wants to throw his glucose monitor through the window. It will not stop alarming, and all he wants to do is sleep. There aren't any windows in his first floor room, and he can barely lift his arm without wincing, but that isn't the point. His father has stepped out for coffee, and the command unit sits outside his IV limited tether.

His clumsy, numb fingers fumble with the nurse call button. His hands shake slightly, and he wonders if he is low. He tries to test his mental acuity by doing math. Three and four is seven. The derivative of x2 is 2x, isn't it? He decides he must be low. He is a member of an elite group of math nerds who can drink and derive.

A nurse hurries in, responding to his page. She hands him the monitor, showing his once again plummeting sugar. She looks conflicted. After his seizure, the hospital staff will not leave him alone while he's low. But, there is nothing to treat the low in the room. Finally, she sticks her head into the corridor and gets the first person available to sit with him.

He's only half surprised when Dr. Blake comes in with a can of coke and two containers of apple juice. The doctor sets aside the soda, and pokes a small straw through the lid of the plastic cup before handing it to him.

A new electronic trill joins the cacophony of the glucose monitor. He has been on a pump long enough to identify an alarm, although it's not made by the same company as his.

"Don't your other patients notice that you're sick?" he asks, a little harshly.

She starts. "What d-d-do you mean?" She stammers, surprised. She unconsciously flexes her hands.

"You're diabetic," he sounds accusatory. He hates how she is playing dumb, sitting on her high horse with her probable history of perfect A1cs and good control.

She sighs and nods. Her face pales. Dr. Blake has lost her polished edge. "D-do you m-mind if I sit?" She asks him, before sinking into one of the seat and popping the tab on the coke. She takes a long drink.

"I saw your pump scars," he admits.

She gives a short, tired laugh. "I have a few." She takes another fortifying drink of Coke. "I earned them, wearing sites too long. It was easier…" She trails off. "Do you know what diabulemia is?" He nods. "I did that for … years. And, some days it's still a battle to take insulin and keep everything in check." She takes another drink. "You scare me, because you remind me of myself."

"Why do you do it, then?" The question slips out before he can stop himself. "Why not just let yourself go?"

She shrugs, "Because I like what I do. I like being a doctor, and I can't practice medicine when I'm on a diabetic roller coaster. Someday, you'll find something that makes you want to control your sugar."


	67. Chapter 67

_A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Hannah and Ellen. ... Not because of the content, but because. If you could send them both good thoughts, it would be much appreciated._

He stirs blearily when the orderly comes to move him upstairs. He is beyond exhausted, now: physically he has pushed himself beyond what anyone can expect, and he's been through an emotional gambit, too. He needs time to sleep and let his mind heal. He's needed it since Nick called the ambulance, maybe even before.

The orderly twitches his IV lines as they are moved over to a pole on a wheelchair. He has to follow and bite his lip to keep from crying. He doesn't care what they say about IVs using plastic tubing instead of needles, he swears they must use knives. As he moves, an alarm associated with one of the wires taped to various points on his body goes off. The orderly mutters something under his breath, and disconnects Einhoven's triangle. The alarm becomes a steady whine.

His glucose is checked, and thankfully, he's hovering at 90. The orderly starts pushing him upstairs. His father follows.

As they approach the elevator, he sees another tan-clad orderly pushing a gurney. He is shocked to recognize the boy he rejected at Scandals, was it really only two weeks ago. He vaguely remembers the kid's name as Dan or Dave, or something. The bear cub's neck is scarlet with ligature marks and he is clearly sedated.

He cannot get the image out of his head as he lays in his hospital bed that night. When he goes into the bathroom (only after his sugar has been checked again), the purple-red mark from a belt is imprinted around his own throat.

Part of him knows that he should be under suicide watch like the other boy. He pushes away the knowledge, and pushes himself. No one entirely knows the darkness in his mind, although he imagines a few people might guess: the doctor, for one, and perhaps the boy being watched upstairs. He is still in control of _something_.


	68. Chapter 68

_A/N: A second option to an insulin pump is the use of shots. Typically, one takes a long acting insulin which lasts 24 hours once or twice a day and uses a pen or syringe to deliver short acting insulin with food. Syringes typically come in 30 – 50 unit doses, and the maximum dose that can be given by common pens is 50U, meaning that if Sebastian were to try the overdose stunt again, he would have to dose and inject twice. It is also common for newly diagnosed diabetics or young children to check their insulin dose (the way the syringe is drawn up) with someone before injecting. I imagine Sebastian's father would want this measure of security as well._

He looks around the Lima Bean nervously, and takes a sip of his medium drip with milk. It is fortifying, but he misses the little bit of sugar he usually puts in his coffee. However, he refuses to drag Trent into the men's room with him like some sort of woman. Trent is the current trustee of his new insulin pen and his designated dose checker. His father does not trust him with his own insulin, let alone a pump. He thinks perhaps his freedom, all be it on a very short leash, is due to the mission of mercy he is attempting.

His stomach flip-flops as Santana Lopez slides across the table from him. "From one bitch to another, all this underhanded crap has to stop." She commands.

"Exactly," he agrees. "That's why I called you here. First of all, Blaine, I am sorry about your eye."

"That means nothing to me," Blaine responds, coldly.

He is desperate. "Just give me a chance," he begs. "I have no excuses, other than a lame prank got completely out of control."

He is sorry. Two nights in the hospital in as many months have left him feeling shaken. He can only image the time Blaine spent there, alone, during his convalescence. And, although no one seems to acknowledge it, the slushie incident was an accident. A stupid accident.

"Second, the Finn photos have all been destroyed," he continues. "I want the Warblers to win fair and square."

Trent and Nick discovered a second set of print yesterday when they fell out of his physics text. When they confronted him about them, and he admitted blackmailing Barbra and Kurt, they threatened to disqualify the Wablers from competition themselves. And, deep down, he knows that winning will be more satisfying when they do it fairly. It's still failure if you have to cheat to win.

"And, we're going to take donations for Lady Gaga's Born this Way Foundation. Win, Loose or draw, we're going to dedicate our performance to Dave Karofsky. I thought you might want to join us," he finishes.

He still sees the ligature marks when he closes his eyes. He cannot get the image of the boy he now knows as Dave laying on that gurney, going up to suicide watch. His own words, "Why don't you just stay in the closet?" echo in his head.

"Wait for the punch," Kurt says, snarkily. "You know it's coming."

He swallows his pride. "No, not this time," he denies. "For far too long, I have treated everything like a big joke." He doesn't explain that it was easier to laugh than cry. "It's all fun and games, until it's not."

His speech delivered, and he has come as close to apologizing as he ever will. Damage control is a bitch.


	69. Chapter 69

He starts chaffing against the routine after exactly two days. It starts as a faint itch in his mind. He is cross when the nurse scolds him for not using rubbing alcohol on his insulin bottles. He is frustrated when Trent reminds him he _has _to finish his plate of pasta, even though he doesn't want it, because he shot up before sitting to lunch. He is angry with his father when he is quizzed about his blood sugar.

He tries to find ways to scratch the itch. He grinds his teeth and reminds himself that he has been doing this half his life, and has never been on antibiotics for a staph infection. He jokes pleasantly, or as pleasantly as he can be with his razor sharp tongue, as he pushes the food around on his pate, and slips some into his napkin. He refuses to tell his father, but instead hands him the small, hard to navigate meter he's been using. It's a model that doesn't allow uploading to a computer. He cannot find relief, though.

He's in the front hall, waiting on the stairs with David on Thursday night. Nick walks purposefully across the lobby in a snow white t-shirt, jeans and running shoes. It's odd, because in his nearly six months of living with Nick Duvall, he has never once seen the dark haired boy wear anything that could qualify as running shoes. Nick hates to run. Nick hates the idea of running. He even once expressed hatred at the word, "run."

Nick sees the two boys sitting on the steps. He almost doesn't acknowledge them, but if nothing else, Nick Duvall is a polite boy. He gives them a nod, and starts hurrying again.

"Wait, Nick," he hears desperation in his roommate's voice. Desperation and a pent up rage that wil explode if it doesn't get released. He doesn't want to take the other boy… he's going _because _of him.

But, Nick has vowed to himself not to let someone else go supernova, if he can help it. He does not want to be standing there, holding the pin to the grenade. He was caught there once, and it still tears him upside. He sees the lid of a long, this box, so black that it seems to absorb all the light around it. The box is surrounded by flowers, and a picture of a boy with a mysterious grin sits on top of it.

"Come with me," he says. "Text your dad, and tell him we're going to a … club meeting."

They walk to one of the old barns, where the school used to keep horses. The floor is swept clean, and a white ring is chalked in the center. Nick strips his shirt and shoes, and motions for the others to do the same.

Time becomes immaterial, as one stranger after another pairs up and takes a turn. Finally, he is called forward for his first time. Someone explains the rules, as he moves from the shadowy perimeter to the center of the circle. After the glaring darkness, he cannot make out his opponent's face. It doesn't matter, though.

He's hot. He's sweating. He's going to be bruised from here to next Saturday (although his clothes will hide them all). He's exhilarated.

As they walk out, he turns to Nick. "Thank you," he says, simply but sincerely. It's the first time Nick has heard the word some from his mouth in such a real way.


	70. Chapter 70

_A/N: Further Italics are lyrics. This chapter has somehow become a song fic… not entirely sure how. From the Wanted's _Glad you Came_, which I don't own!_

_The sun goes down, the stars come out, and all that counts is here and now_.

He stands at the front of the group of boys in blazers, and opens in mouth. When he's preforming, all that counts is the performance. Its one of the only times he can loose himself. He stops thinking. It doesn't matter that the entire club now knows his secret. His father sent Trent and Jeff to ambush him in the green room. When he tested, he was high, and so Trent whipped out his pen and made him take a shot. The rest of the club (except David) crowded to watch in horror and fascination as he stuck the little needle in his arm.

_Turn the lights out now, let me take you by the hand_

The words always remind him of Nick. Nick, his straighter than straight roommate. Nick, who keeps finding him when he hits rock bottom and digging him out. Nick, who hasn't said anything about holding his hand when he was scared and they put in the IV. Nick who held him gently, and reassuringly when he was fighting and the EMTs put in the second line. Nick, who just might be his friend.

_Time is slipping away, Away from us so stay,_

He's not sure how, but he has become comfortable at Dalton. It's a safe place. There is a sense of comradarie he has never had anwhere else. Even though the classes are hard, people are willing to help. Trent is tutoring him through the electronics unit in physics. (Although his clock radio may never be the same… David claims that Trent has gone through twelve.) And, he has helped Jeff with his french a few times. There is the nakedness in the dorms, too. He swears he has never seen so many dicks swinging so freely. But, rather than stare or get turned on, its just part of the experience. If his father makes him leave, sends him away somewhere else, somewhere more structured at the end of this year, as is being threatened, he will be disappointed. For the first time, he may have found a place he wants to say.

He knows Dalton has changed him. Maybe not a lot, but he's a better person. He's not quite so scared. He's not so angry. He might be ready to get better.

_My Universe will never be the same. I'm glad you came._


	71. Chapter 71

He keeps a pleasant look plastered on his face, even as his world crumbles. He has failed. But, he has class. He will not be a sore looser.

Once they're off the stage, he hands the second place trophy over to Thad and excuses himself for business of a personal nature. He locks himself in the only stall, and sits. He puts his head in his hands. Emotions wash over him.

They needed this win so badly. He can tell the Warblers lost something special in the past year. The program needs a confidence boost. After last year, they should have been on the up-and-up. They worked their asses off. He worked his ass off. So, how did a bunch of public school underdogs beat them?

He knows the answer, even before the question finishes forming in his mind. He is a failure as a leader. He will resign. He will let his father transfer him. He will go back to being … invisible.

The bathroom door opens, and feet pound in. "Dude!" Someone exclaims, "I don't mean to rush you, but if you don't get out, I'm going to explode!"

He brushes his hands hard against his eyes, in a symmetric motion, and is pleased to find them free of moisture. He counts slowly to ten as he flushes the toilet and unlocks the door.

Finn Hudson, he of the badly protected Facebook account hurries into the stall. The bathroom is suddenly filled with the sounds of a middle school low brass section during warm ups.

He washes his hands, slowly, at the sink. He splashes some of the cold water on his face, as well. The performance sweat has dried, leaving him tight and sticky.

He feels a light tap on his shoulder. He whirls around to look at the top of Blaine Anderson's gelled head.

"Congratulations, man," Blaine says, offering his hand congenially. "You guys were amazing."

He takes the offered hand, and shakes it. "You were, too," he tells the shorter boy. He means it, even though it hurts. The Warblers simply weren't good enough.

Blaine pulls him into a hug. He's pretty sure Blaine should hate him, after everything he's done. He knows Kurt does. And, Kurt wasn't even the one to accidently get rock salt in his eye. It's surprising. It's also painful.

"What the hell, Anderson?" He demands.

Blaine just grins, and lets him move away, gingerly. "Some time, you're going to explain why Thad sent out an all points SOS last week," the curly haired boy says. "It seemed to indicate that David was baking a wedding cake, Trent was destroying a toaster, Nick and Jeff were no where to be found, and you had been taken away, swearing, by ambulance. Also that Thad needed notes for English."

He stares at Blaine for a minute, not sure what to make of the statement.

"I'm still in the Emergency Warbler Phone Tree," Blaine explains. "And, Thad gossips like a girl."

He steels himself. He can do this. "Someday, soon," he agrees. "I want to know what it is with Trent and small electronics."

Blaine grins. He hopes they can become friends.

He excuses himself. His emotions somehow under control, he returns to his team to find out how the Warblers deal with loss.


	72. Chapter 72

He feels like a toddler being lead into the first day of nursery school. His father walks him to the conference room to make sure he arrives safely, no doubt. Even though they're early, the room already holds three captives. His father hands Dr. Blake, who looks young in cords and a nerdy t-shirt, his insulin pen. A vaguely familiar looking girl in a soft gray sweater and blue jeans rests her chin on her knees. A wide, white bandage covers her throat. A too-skinny boy with black hollows under his eyes, a shaved head and a lip ring completes the group.

As soon as his father leaves, Dr. Blake comes over to him. "I'm not on duty," she says, handing over the insulin pen. "You need to be responsible for this."

He is flooded by a wave of gratitude. It is hard not to feel trapped with someone else watching every bite that goes in his mouth, and forcing him to account for it.

The clock ticks past four-thirty as the last member of the group limps on, and Dr. Blake calls them to order. The group goes around and introduces themselves, giving the usual basic personal statistics: name, school and year, age of diagnosis. He was diagnosed young, although eight seems carefree compared to two.

They talk about scars.

The boy with the piercing, Jamie, says that he doesn't give a shit about his scars. He rolls up his sleeves and shows off his tattoos, defiantly. Jamie strips off his shirt, daring Dr. Blake to stop him. Sebastian can count his ribs. He looks like a skeleton covered in skin. There is an expiration date, four years in the future, printed on the boy's all too visible rib cage. It makes Sebastian shudder.

The girl in gray brings her knees down from her chest long enough to speak quietly. "I have some physical scars," she says as she pulls back the white bandage from her throat, "but I think the psychological ones are worse." She goes on to explain some of her struggles.

He isn't sure if he agrees or not. He isn't sure if he's as messed up as these kids. He holds everything together. He gets good grades. He's a member of a sports team and a club that … loses.

The hour is over surpassingly quickly.

He carries the pen definitely from the group meeting. Dr. Blake follows him, half running to catch up to his long strides. "Thanks for coming, Sebastian." She speaks in his ear, so the passing orderlies can't hear her. "I don't know if it helps, or not." He shrugs. He doesn't either. "I don't know if you're ready," she adds. "You're still angry … just as angry as any of them. And, until you let go of your anger, you're just going to spin in circles. Let me know when you're ready to done being angry, and ready to make a change. Let me know when you're ready to let your control go."

* * *

><p><em>A N: This story has been a journey I never could have imagined when I started it three months ago. It began as the brain child of my wicked crush on Sebastian Smythe and my own struggles with diabetes and depression. Almost everything diabetes-related I described here, (with the exception of the super overdose) is described from my real experiences. The rest came from cannon and imagination. When I started writing, I wasn't still angry, but I was stuck. Writing this, I've met an amazing community of people who are supporting me. I'm making changes in my life. Changes that hopefully, Sebastian will be able to make someday, too. I don't know where either of our stories will really end, we're both works in progress._

_I want to finish by thanking the people who have helped me with this. _

_First, there are the people who stuck me through the stupid things I did: Sarah, Elle, Bryce, Theresa, and my parents. You guys watched me after my first experimentations with alcohol, sat with me through the ketones both at home and in the hospital, have have lost more than enough sleep over me._

_Thank you to Deb, my *amazing* endo (diabetes doctor) who met me on my level, even when that was a scared, angry little girl who was trying to self destruct. I don't know how to express how much I appreciate that you never yelled at me, never equated my worth with my A1c, took care of me despite the fact that you have to mark "See back for complete list of diagnoses" on all the forms, and celebrated all my small victories._

_Turning to the FF community, Thank you to DifferentChild, who helped me discover some of the Warblers more… interesting foibles, and did a fair bit of on-the-fly beta-ing._

_Love to Martina, Lovely-Sweetie, BlueCharlotte, ., rebelthethird, and everyone who reviewed. You guys drove the story. _

_A huge thanks to the community of tumblrbetics, including Jathan, who have been watching my posts and making sure I'm not killing myself.  
><em>_Love to Hannah and Ellen. You guys are amazing… and totally inspire me. _

_A huge shout out to Steph, who has not only been there to bounce ideas off of for the story, but was instrumental inconvincing me that I could make a change. _

_I love and appreciate you all!_


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